She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. ’ ‘A pretty tale. The freezing water reached her chin and she felt the heat of her body dispersing, creating a disappearing patch of warmth as her limbs froze. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out.
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