Emile looked at her, then down, and clearly caught the bright gleam on the floor. She ought to have leapt back on guard. I will not trust you. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper.
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