" "You had better write them for me, Mr. ‘Take this. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with spectators. She taught him how to sail a proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo sprouts. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. The theme was a masquerade.
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