Summer Beecher

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Every person was a surprise, she was learning. Every soul never had its copy. Each one a world to itself, a world of that soul’s making, and when that soul was gone, a whole world ended. It didn’t matter if they started out old or ugly or cranky; by the end of it they were sweet and soft beyond bearing. She held the dying, each one a world, and she loved the
Buffalo Flats
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