"What need had she of pins? For she was not so much dressed as cased, like a beetle compactly in its sheath. Blue in winter, green in summer. What need had she of pins --"
Is that rain? I wonder. Pecking at the apple leaves? I look up at the oystered sky. Must be. I start at the beginning, determined to read until a raindrop dots the page
a game I am playing, a game of one's own
then splat, a raindrop. Turning grey the page. In the middle of "summer"!
I look up again, and there she is, from the back this time, her hair done up in a bun.
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