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... t."
"You heard me."
She stared at him.
"I’m —" She looked at the window. At the city outside. At the ordinary, indifferent quality of the city doing its evening without consulting her. "I just — my husband just left. There is a report. My baby —"
"Is mine," he said. Quiet. The flat, factual quality of it.
She looked at him.
"—my marriage —"
"Meera."
"I can’t — I literally cannot —"
His hand.
Found her breast.
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