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and we have brought in leaves and flung the
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curtains and tipped the bud vase and somehow left the house again before
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she could run downstairs, leaving behind us a strong smell of lake water.
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She would sigh and think, "they never change."
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Or imagine Lucille in Boston, at a table in a restaurant waiting for a friend.
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She is tastefully dressed, wearing, say, a tweed suit
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with an amber scarf at the throat,
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to draw attention to the red in her darkening hair.
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Her water glass has left two thirds of a ring on the table and she works
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at completing the circle with her thumbnail.
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Sylvie and I do not flounce in through the door,
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smoothing the skirts of our oversized coats and combing our hair back with our fingers.