Tell me I haven’t heard. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. ‘Go then. I’ve got a streak of male. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground.
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