On the fifth day he had ventured speech with her. I got a rusty bolt cutter. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. She snatched about in her mind. ’ He could just see the glare. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate.
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