Diminished Responsibility Of A Brisk Wind Run

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Diminished Responsibility A brisk wind ran its fingers through the tall hemlock down by the riverbank, having it to sway dangerously. She sighed again as she looked out the window. The garden was neat and orderly, as was the house – she made sure of that. The little gate at the end of the lawn rattled in the wind, and she noticed the dustbin lid had been blown off. She must see to that. It was 8:15, and Catherine was tidying away the dishes of a breakfast in which they had shared petty formalities, and the marmalade. The day had started out like any other day. At eight o’clock he would get his car keys from the sideboard, curtly kiss her on the left cheek, and shut the front door behind him with a strength that caused the little gold letter-box to shake. She would listen for the sound of crunching gravel as he reversed the company car out of the driveway, and then proceed with her day: duly carrying out the mundanities that made up her life. It hadn’t always been like this. At twenty-one, Catherine had been swept off her feet by his good looks, charisma and confidence; he being ten years her senior. Much to her parents’ disapproval, they married shortly after, and the two of them moved out of the maelstrom of the crowds that was London, to raise two boys of their own. She settled into village life well: school events, village fetes, and always being there. She seemed to be the perfect mother and wife. But inwardly, Catherine had always yearned to do something

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