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Unformatted text preview: u tried. I'm sorry, my darling dear, my beloved Gifford. I didn't mean to hurt you. And we both tried. Lord. God, forgive me! What am I to do, Gifford?" Silence. Again came the waves. Was he gone? Her willowy Christ with his soft hair, who'd been talking to her for so long? The water washed over her face. It felt so good. What had he told her, something about going down into the little town, and seeing the creche there, with the little plaster Christ Child in the hay, and all the brothers in their brown robes. He had not asked to be a priest, only one of the brothers. "But you are meant for better things." It cut right through the pain for a moment, that sense of lost hours, lost words and images, she too had been to Assisi, she had told him. St. Francis was her saint. Would he get the medal for her? Out of her purse? It was St. Michael, but she wanted it. He'd understand. If you understood about St. Francis you understood about St. Michael. You understood about all saints....
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- Spring '10