Thanks for this Marion-
here is what I sent in;
The wan, crepuscular rays of the winter sun (for it was winter) illuminated
Flaherty through the window, giving him a crinkled, blue-bottle-tinged peat colour, making Abigail, resplendent in really black widow’s weeds, think how well he looked- considering he’d been dead for years. Thirty years ago the waxing gibbous phase of the moon one sees best at night provoked Abigail’s annoyance. She’d woken; disturbed, light streaming on her face. ‘Flah’ was snoring again. Today, decades later, the Sultanabad Brunschwig drapes with that intricate design reminiscent of scrimshawed corduroy, if corduroy could be scrimshawed, along with lace curtains which now hung like strands of mummified filigree mucus, were open once more. Living so long, if living it was, with a silent, desiccated corpse killed by a single swipe of a brass-plated tin coal bucket, bought in McSquidson’s hardware when reduced to £1/17/6, had finally dissipated her anger.
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