Sometimes, back then, I used to lie down beside her and try to turn her pages by blowing on them. That had always coaxed a smile from her; but one afternoon Alva had reacted irritably. She was clutching her book with both hands; a beloved character was obviously dying between her fingers. It was only then that I noticed she was crying. I hadn’t meant to disturb her, yet I couldn’t alter the fact that I was sharing this intimate moment with her. I glanced at her reddened face, and realized how much Alva loved literature, so much more than all the other people I knew. And the fact that she was
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