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Unformatted text preview: e wanted to be warm and be with her. He turned around and walked slowly back across the double parlor, beneath the cypress arch, a beautiful ornamental thing. Maybe he should read to her, softly, so that she could tune it out if she hated it. Maybe play the radio for a while. Maybe play Julien's Victrola. That mean nurse who didn't like the Victrola was no longer here. He could send the nurses out of the room, couldn't he? Gradually it had been penetrating to him. Do we need these nurses? He saw her dead. He saw her gray and cold and finished. He saw her buried, more or less. Not the whole detailed picture, step by step, and strewn over time. Just the concept, in a flashing light-a coffin sliding into a vault. Like Giffbrd. Only it was here, their cemetery on the edge of the Garden District, and he could walk over there any day, and lay his hand on the slab of marble that was only four or five inches from her soft dark blond hair. Rowan, Rowan. Remember, monfils. He turned. Who had said this? The great long hall was hollow and empty and slightly cold. The dining room was altogether dark. He listened, not for real sounds, but for supernatural ones, for the voice again. Remember, yes, I will. "Yes, I will," he sai...
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- Spring '10