When he was up and about, the idea of flight would return. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. The door to the library burst open. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “Carolyn loves ‘Fiddler on the Roof. And, thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the room.
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