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When her eldest asked, the night before, delaying the moment before her mother turned off the light, where daddy was going in the morning, she told her three girls that Serge was going to Brussels. The eldest, Sarah, who is 11 and has slant eyes and long, light brown hair, lay back on her pillows in her pink pajamas, her book, Middlemarch, which her father is making her read, at her side. She held onto her mother's hand, playing with her tings to retain her as she asked, "Why Brussels?"
"He has a publisher in Brussels," Pamela told her and kissed the child on her nose and plump cheeks, got up, and kissed the two younger ones in their bunk beds. "And now it's time to go to sleep, darlings. Tomorrow, we'll take a picnic down to the river, if the weather's nice," she added, turned out the light, and stood outside their room. She leaned back against the wall and pressed her hands to her heart, as though she could still the beating. She is...See the full content of this document
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