1 And in those summers Dad, too, was alive. At eight the drive to Hale’s Goods; by nine the Times, under the long shade of the oaks, smoke drifting above as from a slow, intent fire.
2 Once, returning at dawn, I saw his books in a first shaft of mote-filled light. On the highest shelf, the first the sun could find, they stood stout in gleaming jackets as if alert to a reveille.













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