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Unformatted text preview: but he does not know it himself. Recite the poem again. Tell it to me." Ancient Evelyn had hated to say the poem. The poem came from her as if she were the Victrola and someone had touched her with an invisible needle, and out came the words, and she did not know what they meant. Words that frightened Julien, and had frightened his niece Carlotta beforehand, words that Julien said over and over again as the months passed. How vigorous he had looked, his white curly hair still very thick, his eyes very clever and focused upon her. He'd never suffered the blindness and deafness of old age, had he? Was it his many loves that kept him young? Perhaps so. He'd laid his soft dry hand over hers, and kissed her cheek. "Soon I shall die like everyone else, and there's nothing I can do about it." Oh, that precious year, those precious few months. And to think of him coming to her, young in that vision. That she'd heard his voice all the way up at her window. And there he'd stood in the rain, all chipper and handsome and beaming at her as he...
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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