Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. That’s really what I want to discuss. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. ‘The cat’s foot, Hilary.
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