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The old woman sat in her chair and knitted, just as she had always done. Her mother had showed her how, just like she’d shown her own daughter.

‘Push it through, pull it under and over….’

This was a scarf, for her granddaughter. It was Grace’s favourite colour, special for her birthday.

‘Pull it back and up….’

She was nearing the end; the ball of wool unfurled next to her.

‘Slide it off.’

They found her the next day, scarf neatly folded in her lap.

‘Apoplexy’, said the doctor. ‘Very sudden, very quick.’

‘I doubt she knew anything about it.’

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