The Christmas she dreamed of was a Red one, the flag flying, fists raised, department stores emptied, the well-to-do stumbling about in a daze. The other red, the kind that runs down walls, she was not so sure of, the sight of the stuff tending always to make her retch. A Red Christmas need not be a bloody one. But then she remembered that smug prick at the bank, not to mention Mrs Furcoat Jones and her sneer of a husband. There'll be others, many. The gutters might well run with them, she thought.
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"Classic"
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