"Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up. Her formerly brown hair was dyed a white shade of blonde. " It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. She crept into the living room and turned off the set, adjusting Cathy’s blanket which had fallen to the carpeted floor.
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