A series of photographs were taken of them: her on the stairs, the couple of them on the stairs, the couple of them in the kitchen, him pinning a red rose corsage with great care and acute sexual frustration. She caught her breath, and her eyes were lit with a sudden terror. Nevertheless, Ann Veronica found it a difficult matter not to think of these things. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets.
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