It’s too nice a day to read a novel set in England. We’re within inches of the perfect distance from the sun, the sky is blueberries and cream, and the wind is as warm as air from a tire. Even the headstones in the graveyard seem to stand up and say “Hello! My name is...” It’s enough to be sitting here on my porch, thinking about Kermit Roosevelt, following the course of an ant, or walking out into the yard with a cordless phone to find out she is going to be there tonight. On a day like…
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