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Janet Fitch

“The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I.”


Janet Fitch, White Oleander
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White Oleander White Oleander by Janet Fitch
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