What if it wasn’t the woods? What if it was me? Could this be some obnoxious new manifestation of my maladies—soldier’s heart and battle nerves and whatever had gone wrong in my ears, between the cannon fire and the gunshots and that time back when I was young and foolish and kept a gun under my pillow and it went off an inch from my ear? Christ’s blood, that was an unpleasant thought. I kept telling myself that we’d be back in Paris as soon as the snow came, since Miss Potter could hardly hunt for mushrooms under such conditions, but what if going back to Paris didn’t fix it? What if I leaned
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