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45 J. D. Salinger, Recluse, Dies at 91 The snow is definite & not less definite for its quickness to melt. Deft as the Snowshoe the flurry, sleety, runs along the face, the face a fence &, within, the brain gambols. Leapers whose nerves were fervent are not. And yet the light feet were felt. He felt them in a warren made of weather. There is blood in the cheek where time has thickened the mask, & when the saliva has icicled, his pigment is lost in plaster. Consider the silence a White Period. ...

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