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And I’d started thinking about my mother’s last weeks–the way she’d drifted listlessly about the house in her dressing gown, cigarettes in one hand, glass of something strong-smelling in the other.
And I’d started thinking about my mother’s last weeks–the way she’d drifted listlessly about the house in her dressing gown, cigarettes in one hand, glass of something strong-smelling in the other.
