She closed her eyes at the breakfast table.
Her lips slightly evinced her hearts pastoral
praise. The words I never knew but I
could feel her spirit true. Toasted
rye with marmalade and grapefruit juice
seemed sacred there, raptured for the
moment. In those few minutes each
morning she seemed so close to being
free. I had only to ask, and she would
have shared, would have lead me to her
peace. Instead my vanity was in her
grace, my greed in her beauty. She
closed her eyes at the breakfast table.
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