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Through her window, she watched and she waited, like Eleanor Rigby, keeping her face in a jar by the door but no one was coming and the cold metal felt colder against her somehow, colder than she remembered when she was young and pretty and living the good life. The good life, it seemed so far away now, farther than Little Rock, farther than Buffalo, farther than the people and the places she had known, the times she was happy and the times she wasn’t, didn’t they all blur together now? Irene thought so.