She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass. My sister made me over, you know. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest.
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