He began shoveling dirt over the bodies. Michelle looked at Lucy's feet, still in the ugly brown loafers she had worn since last year. “Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go.
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