Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. ” True summer descended like a sticky fever upon August’s arrival, bringing with it miasmas of humidity that seemed to hang from the trees like mucus. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. "I alone am to blame. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent.
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