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she persisted. "Shalt thou not lend me thine shoulder that I may inhale thy sickly shywife scent?" I knew what shywife she wanted. Even though her daughter's ashes had been scattered liberally around the Disney Store in Manchester's Arndale Centre almost three years previously, Carol still maintained that she could smell her on me. "Carol," I pleaded. "Thou art mother in law and in law shywife alone. Not in heart, nor mind, nor breast. Not in blood, nor milk, nor in the eyes of the Lord."Carol would not be told. "But sire, I implore ye! Thou art my son in law and in deed, in memory and in soul. My need to smell the floral tones of my daughter's loins from the nape of thine waxy neck is volcanic in its magnitude and brutal in its dogged determination. I awake under moonlight, bile gargling like cold tea in the well of my parched throat. I retch in the darkness.
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