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Unformatted text preview: her little house on account of its fragility, that a storm would most surely fold it up like a pack of cards. This afternoon she had walked several miles south to inspect the house bought so recently by Michael and Rowan, a high contemporary structure built as it ought to be built-on pilings, and looking down upon a deserted sweep of beach. No sign of life there, but what had she expected? She'd wandered back, heavily depressed by the mere sight of the place-how Rowan and Michael had loved it; they'd gone there on their honeymoon-and glad that her own little house was low and old and hidden behind a small and insignificant little dune, the way you couldn't and shouldn't build them today. She loved its privacy, its intimacy with the beach and the water. She loved that she could walk out her doors, and up three steps and along her boardwalk, and then down and out across the sand to the lip of the sea. And the Gulf was the sea. Noisy or quiet, it was the sea. The great and endless open sea. The Gulf was the entire southern horizon. This might as well have been the end of the world. One hour more and then it would be Ash Wednesday; she waited as if waiting for the witchi...
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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