“It wasn’t hers. Yes, she slept in it. She had every night since Harry had left her. When she’d first decorated it for guests, she’s thought it was enchanting. Wrought iron bed, rosy walls, antique wardrobe. But since she started sleeping in here, the bed had made her feel like she was behind bars. She hated the damn lacy curtains. Overgrown doilies was what they were. A Victorian prison. The familiar anger began to choke her again. At the curtains she hated. The resentment and fury swelled insi...de her like a sinister wave. She clutched the covered to keep from jumping up and ripping the curtains down. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she lost the house. She gasped, taking the thought back. Harry would have been so hurt if he’d heard her. But Harry was dead, that dark voice inside her said. Margaret jerked to sitting. She needed… She didn’t know what she needed. The night closed in around her, and she struggled to breathe. Scrabbling for the lamp on the bedside table, she managed to turn it on.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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