She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. " "That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow, shuddering. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. " "I will," replied Sheppard, dashing the glass from his hand. ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid.
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