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Immigrant. . . .
Although it was my best of intentions I don’t know why it was not obvious to those who claimed they knew me. But what they saw was some kind of favoritism but never the cost or the contract involved. That it could not be believed was understandable. But the next question should have been, why…
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A Sorrow Hushed . . . . . .
A Sorrow Hushed. . . My ears cleaved to the door frame of the dining room. Her whisper was hoarse, were there many? Lots, he said, lots, as he held the letter that told him what they saw. They pushed for space, women and children and their men for best viewing. They wanted to see. …
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At A High Cost . . . .
When I was younger and found footing in my woman’s novels, I came across soon to be a favorite writer. It was a time when the library was my sons and my main excursion to replenish our idea resources. Marcia Willett was her name and a favorite book ‘A Week In Winter’ was a…