Spring of 2008, and the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of sparkled in the sun, and I was a wasteland. Worse, a silly, frightened woman.My husband, Conrad Black, was in prison while I lived alone in a large seashore house where migrants would occasionally wash up under our stairs down to the beach, sometimes alive and sometimes tragically dead.They weren’t my main fear, though I regretted the lack of a man in the house to deal with them. It was the home- grown invaders who now and then robbed and assaulted. And the terrible silence of a house in which no one lived but my shadow.
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