Maybe half a year, counting this summer. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. “Yes. ” “Sooner or later. The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted.
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