Wood's reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. It was comforting to have her there, snoring gently.
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