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118 the widows’ handbook Post-Mortem Jane Hayman The phone rings. Hello hello. It’s your ghost again. Every day letters from you in the post again. I told you to leave but there is your face when the fog floats in from the coast again. Here by the fire, there by the stair. Go back to your best in the frost again. Stay out of my mirror. This is goodbye. Forget my address. Get lost again. ...

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