"After all, he is my father, Hoddy; and I cursed him. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh.
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