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She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. Many’s the bullets I’ve dug out of fellows in my time. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Then she begins to have visions of what is forbidden to all mortals: knowledge of the future. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. When the carpenter concluded his recital, Jonathan was for a moment lost in reflection.
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