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Unformatted text preview: er granddaughters Gifford and Alicia, and Alicia's only child, Mona. But this was a game she was playing, making visions. Oncle Julien wasn't in the door. Had to be careful. Those visions were not the real thing. But the real thing was coming. Mona walked along the flagstone path to the side of the house, and then back the flags, past the side porch where Aunt Deirdre had sat in her rocker for so many years. Poor Aunt Deirdre. Mona had seen her from the fence many a time, but she'd never managed to get inside the gate. And now to know the awful story of the way they'd drugged her. The porch was all clean and pretty these days, with no screen on it anymore, though Uncle Michael had put back Deirdre's rocking chair and did use it, as if he had become as crazy as she had been, sitting there for hours in the cold. The windows to the living room were hung with lace curtains and fancy silk drapes. Ah, such riches. And here, where the path turned and widened, this was where Aunt Antha had fallen and died, years and years ago, as doomed a witch as her daughter, Deirdre, would become, Antha...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10