meeting too much confusion when I tried to approach the question to dare pursue it further, for fear of encountering a taboo. And they were not welcomed. Elsie was there now, an icon cast in bronze before the setting sun, her body canted slightly against the weight in her belly, like a ship leaning away from the wind. Ever more effortless murder, the final statistical flat-line in the falling price of destruction.
Or, rather, they develop eyes normally, up to a point. Surely God wants it that way. Perhaps Clare or one of the other infrequent visitors had fetched them. But we distance ourselves better from our murders, and so are not prepared to confront them.
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