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Unformatted text preview: dn't matter. He could walk, he could move. He could wipe off the hammer. He looked to the back of the dark garden, past the glow of the blue swimming pool, and through the iron gates to the rear yard. He saw the great arms of Deirdre's oak reaching upward, crowding out the pale clouds. "Under the oak," he thought. "When I catch my breath. When I . . . when I ..." and he went down on the grass, on his knees, and collapsed to the side. Thirty-eight FOR A long time he lay there. He didn't sleep. The pain came and went. Finally, he drew in his breath and it didn't hurt so much. He sat up, and then the pain started pounding in him, but it seemed small and contained within the chambers or the valves of his heart. He did not know which. He did not care. He rose to his feet, and walked to the flags. The house lay in darkness, quiet, still as before. My beloved Rowan. Aaron . . . But he could not leave this mangled body here. It lay as he had left it, only it seemed more flattened some...
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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