"That's not an easy question to answer," rejoined Blueskin. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. White was scattered across the long stretches of pine trees and corn fields. That is why I called myself Anna. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English.
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