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LATE SNOWSTORM March is a moralist with a highhorse heart, a spinster with an eager past, a clairvoyant who reads the orange thought in each purple mind unhinged by the sun and blanches. She despises her own small lapse, and now all these sudden keepsakes .l.l. so she’s smashing her crystal into ten thousand shards and scorning the crocus with heaps of them— oh, whatever it takes to seize up and wreck the delicate machinery of desire.  ...

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