Here she would find candy awaiting her, bits of ribbon, books. , like to forget all about it—even their names. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. . “I am under police surveillance,” she said.
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