He returned when it was dark and Helen was changing for dinner, grabbing her irritably. Surely ride and walk aren’t transitive verbs, thought Helen. “You’d think she was eight months pregnant,” muttered Fen savagely. “I prefer navels,” he said, running his hand over his wife’s midriff.
“It’s me, darling. She was four months pregnant, and Billy liked her plump, anyway. With a growing feeling of apprehension, Helen watched the preparations. It was still raining; the horror of the dream gripped him again.
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