The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. ’ I said. Seven hundred forty-two dollars and eighty-one cents, the sum total of her money in the world that she hid in a filigreed cigar box shelved behind her schoolbooks. And Pottiswick, of course. That night, she hunted the alleyways of the old town.
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