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64 The Last Line Ask the last one what she is waiting for on the beveled street behind the white horses and hypnotists, and she’ll say nothing as she taps the cudgel against her knee. One of the women, far ahead in gold earrings and folkloric dress, looks like her sister, but darker, finer. Is there something beyond the rise? Silent, she wipes her bleary eyes, shifts weight to her wet foot tethered to the morning wind as the turbines begin: ...

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