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 About Rose Ida Who would give a good god damn if she walked to town with her two bare feet? She could comb through her curls with mulberry-stained fingertips, and rush into the drugstore, hike up her skirts and do a jig. Maybe she would search her nutmeg cupboards for bones and flasks and sit, wine-drunk and weepy on her front steps singing to her chickens. She might reach up to the sky as stark as prairie in winter, call for rain, rapture. ...

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