Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. “Everybody seems to have it now. Then he rallied, smiling a little. See paragraph 1. So she built a shrine. I’ve had a headache all day.
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