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Unformatted text preview: ked to put hers, especially when her feet were bare, to feel the inevitable cold that lingered in the stone. This man was not barefoot or in any form of casual attire. This man looked dapper to her in the firelight, very tall, and "imperially thin" like Richard Cory in the old Edwin Arlington Robinson poem. She moved a little slowly along the boardwalk, and then stepped down out of the wind into the relative quiet and warmth of the rear yard. Through the glass doors, her house looked like a picture. Only this man was wrong. And the truly wrong part of him was not his dark tweed jacket, or wool sweater; it was his hair; his long, shining black hair. It hung over his shoulders, rather Christlike she thought. Indeed as he turned and looked at her, it was a dime-store Christ that came to mind-one of those blinding color pictures of Jesus with eyes that open and close when you tilt it, full of lurid color and immediately accessible prettiness-Jesus of soft curls and soft garments, and a tender smil...
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- Spring '10