. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. They don’t count, and I don’t care. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford.
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