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Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

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Tuesday,” I said to his back as he moved toward the sunroom door.

He did not answer, but his boots made a heavy, deliberate sound on the floorboards as he walked toward the rear of the house. I stayed in the wicker chair, my fingers still working over my fingernails, waiting for the clock to move toward noon.

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By twelve, Sarah had come continue reading …

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