’ ‘Your husband?’ Gerald tutted. " The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. ’ Gerald unfolded his arms and threw his hands in the air. Petite build, like herself. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad.
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