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67 Memoir I willed the knife to hit the mark and it did sometimes at the point, and stuck. Practice led to skill until my eyes were covered with a handkerchief and my beloved straddled a wheel for all to see as I threw at her to hit the space between her legs, beside her head, beneath her arms. This was it, all or nothing: my life and hers in a mortal art where every night she was reprieved for having lived, and I was kissed as she was freed as part of the act that traveled the country and built my fame as the man who misses with perfect aim. deNiord text-2.indd 67 11/10/10 10:40 AM ...

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