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around her hair, carrying a broom.
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Yet this was the time that leaves began to gather in the corners.
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There were leaves that had been through the winter,
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some of them worn to a net of veins.
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There were scraps of paper among them, crisp and strained from their
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mingling in the cold brown liquors of decay and regeneration,
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and on these scraps there were sometimes words.
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One read Powers Meet, and another, which had been the flap
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of an envelope, had a penciled message in an
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anonymous hand: I think of you.
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Perhaps Sylvie when she swept took care not to molest them.
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Perhaps she sensed a Delphic niceness in the scattering of these