The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. During the week, her uniform was the blue and white scrubs of a nurse, the job she had suffered at for twenty-seven years.
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