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Nanna reads tea leaves. We indulge her, though we don’t believe a word of her leafy predictions.
An accident, a prolonged illness, a new romance. If they happen, we put it down to coincidence.
Mr Achton, a thoroughly unpleasant neighbour, called on nanna.
I see a terrible death, she told him. I see a greyish square full of tiny holes. I see breathlessness, suffocation.
We laughed after he’d gone. Mr Achton had shunned nanna’s loose-leaf tea, using his own teabag, unbeknownst to her.
He died two days later. A pillow held to his face was what the papers said.

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