I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. But he was not a father one could make much of. . Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her.
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