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Unformatted text preview: The Time Traveler’s Wife Wednesday, June 27, 1984 (Clare is 13) Clare: I am standing in the Meadow. It’s late June, late afternoon; in a few minutes it will be time to wash up for supper. The temperature is dropping. Ten minutes ago the sky was coppery blue and there was a heavy heat over the Meadow, everything felt curved, like being under a vast glass dome, all near noises swallowed up in the heat while an overwhelming chorus of insects droned. I have been sitting on the tiny footbridge watching waterbugs skating on the still small pool, thinking about Henry. Today isn’t a Henry day; the next one is twenty-two days away. It is not much cooler. Henry is puzzling to me. All my life I have pretty much just accepted Henry as no big deal; that is, although Henry is a secret and therefore automatically fascinating, Henry is also some kind of miracle and just recently it’s started to dawn on me that most girls don’t have a Henry or if they do they’ve all been pretty quiet about it. dawn on me that most girls don’t have a Henry or if they do they’ve all been pretty quiet about it....
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This note was uploaded on 04/06/2011 for the course WRIT 340 at USC.