Fiction | June 01, 2003
The Wolf House
Peter Selgin
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That Sunday morning, when I told her, “Mrs. Wolff is dead,” my mother groaned, cocked her head, pursed her lips and said, in a voice barely loud enough to hear, “Che peccato.” The next day she lay in her bed, sick, calling to me in her Death Voice, “Andrew? Andrew? Sei tu, Andrew?
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