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Out of pills. She must have been desperate. That terrible night, with the scent of oranges all around her and nothing to which she could cling.

I would sell my children for a night’s sleep.

Then, under a pasted-in recipe clipped from a newspaper, in writing so small my old eyes needed a magnifying glass to make out the words:

T. L. came again. Said there had been a problem at La R'ep. Some soldiers got out of hand. Said R-C might have seen something. Brought pills.

Could those pills have been thirty high-dosage morphine tablets? For her silence? Or were the pills something else entirely?

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