She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known.
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