His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. To compare me to a starving pig. Wood. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. The daughters, he had hoped, would be their mother’s care. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled. And yet—I love you.
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