She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. If only we are not divided. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. .
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