But I also hated him, and not only for what he did with a mallet. He was a thief. I’d not been able to say it to him because I might have choked up when I uttered Percy’s name. For his poem, Francis stole my best, most precious times with Percy, inserted himself into our carefree wandering across rich landscapes, into our joy in nature and passion for naming it, into our curiosity, our delight in river-swimming, our rough picnics in meadows and woods. To give his poem force, Francis crept inside Percy’s skin. If I once loved Francis to a degree, I loved and still love Percy far more. I don’t
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