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Unformatted text preview: e could smell it. No. She'd asked Bea. No. She'd asked Ryan. Of course not. Stop going around looking for mysterious things! She thought of Aunt Gifford's drawn face as she stood in the hospital corridor on Christmas Night, when they'd thought Michael was dying, and the way she had looked at Uncle Ryan. "You know what's happened!" she had said. "That's superstition and madness," Ryan had answered. "I won't listen to it. I won't let you speak of it in front of the children." "I don't want to talk about it in front of the children," Aunt Gifford had said, her jaw trembling. "I don't want the children to know! Keep them away from that house, I'm begging you. I've been begging you all along." "Like it's my fault!" Uncle Ryan had whispered. Poor Uncle Ryan, the family lawyer, the family protector. Now that was a fine example of what conformity could do to one, because Uncle Ryan was in every respect a super-looking male animal, of the basically heroic type, with square jaw, and blue eyes, and good strong shoulders and a flat belly and a musi...
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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