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Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

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the office,” he said.

“I can finish my work, Donald.”

“I will finish this flat,” he said, his voice clipped and final.

I did not argue because my knees were starting to tremble under my apron.

The vintage desk fan turned slowly on the filing cabinet, blowing a warm breeze over the green folders of order slips. Robert sat in the vinyl visitor’s chair, tapping continue reading …

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