She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. “Ciao. ‘And so?’ she asked. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face.
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