Capes went first, finding footholds and, where the drops in the strataedges came like long, awkward steps, placing Ann Veronica’s feet. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. “Julian, please, let’s go to your place.
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