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Helping Hands
Next month I shall be sixty-seven years old. Before then there will be the fifth anniversary of the day my darling Dorothy was taken from me. A merciful release, said people who had known of her illness; and so it was. I still think of her, of course, and that is why I cannot help feeling just a little guilty about the turn my life has taken in the intervening years.Sex was never that important to Dorothy. At any rate, not once our early ardour had dwindled. And somehow I suppose I just adopted...
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