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Soap suds trickled lazily down the glass, their progress slowed by the freezing temperature. Frieda, pausing in her work, saw the post in Mr William’s mail box. She would have to move that before anyone noticed.
“Nice to see people looking out for each other.”
Frieda turned to the passing neighbour, fixed smile. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said.
Pleasantries, goodbyes. Then she was alone again.
Taking the spare key, she entered Mr William’s house. He didn’t object. Hypothermia had silenced him.
Frieda took the last of the money from beneath his mattress. Soon the thaw would come and she would be gone, no longer a pauper in life’s beggar’s opera.
A writer - I think that says it all.