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He was sure the baby would be born dead. Never know what else it might be this time of night, do you. The Post Office door was on the latch. And his grey-white hands, crossed over his chest, were fumbling at it. He was holding up a small bottle.
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He opened it, looked through briefly, then closed it again. There is no one here, but old Manx. But still she held the grin and went on talking and brushing. She had stopped brushing her hair. He looked at her eyes, which now held an approximation of a coquettish half-lidded sidelong glance, but there was behind it a kind of terror. My eyes were red and bleary with fatigue.
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