Unformatted text preview: ough the wet flowers, until she had reached the roof of the second floor porch, all the way above those flagstones, and saw Julien, through the window, in his brass bed. "Evalynn!" he'd said peering through the glass to welcome her, reaching out for her. She'd never told Stella about all that. Evelyn had been thirteen when Julien first brought her to that room. In a way, that day had been the first of her true life. To Julien she could talk the way she couldn't to other people. How powerless she had been in her silence, only now and then breaking it when her grandfa- ther beat her, or the others begged her and then mostly to speak in rhymes. Why, she wasn't speaking them at all really, she was reading the words from the air. Julien had asked to hear her strange poetry, her prophecy. Julien had been afraid. He had known of the dark times to come. But oh, they had been so carefree in their own way, the old man and the mute child. In the afternoon, he'd made love to her very slowly, a littl...
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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