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She was unusually soft and gentle in her manner to him. From one window the beach was always visible; from another, the stores. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. Everything was going to hell. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it.
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