Morning spiders over the floorboards, and reaches my uncle’s corpse. Dust weaving in the shaft of light gives it a physical presence in the room. My uncle died last evening on a mattress stuffed with twenty-pound notes, and I have kept more or less constant vigil as I decide what to do. It is a miser’s room, not filthy but Spartan.
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“It’s my job to, Mrs. Holloway," said Kris.
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