Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. Hurrying in the direction of the supposed arrest, they encouraged each other with shouts, and threatened the offending parties with their vengeance. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said.
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