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Unformatted text preview: t;Who are you?" She tried to make it sound polite. Casual. Normal. "Do we know each other, you and I?" "Yes, Gifford. You know me. You know who I am," he said. His voice was lyrical as if he were reciting something that rhymed, but it didn't rhyme. He seemed to cherish the simple syllables he spoke. "You saw me when you were a little girl," he said, making the last word very beautiful. "I know you did. I can't really remember the moment now. You can remember for both of us. Gifford, think back, think back to the dusty porch, the overgrown garden." He looked sad, thoughtful. "I don't know you," she said, but her voice had no conviction. He came closer to her. The bones of his face were gracefully sculp- tured but the skin, how fine and flawless was the skin. He was better than the dime-store Christ, certainly. Oh, more truly like the famous self-portrait ofDiirer. "Salvator Mundi, " she whispered. Wasn't that the painting's name? "I've lost those recent centuries," he said, "if ever I possessed them, struggling as I did then to see the simplest of solid things. But I claim older truths and memories now, bef...
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- Spring '10