Her jaws were set; her mouth and chin were wet with a frothy spittle, laced with blood because she'd bitten her tongue—which was at least preferable to her swallowing it. All that summer, Angel had been looking forward to the next summer—when he would be sixteen, old enough to have his driver's license. look over the building, up the hillside, and see the light from the window illuminating the eroded, unplanted hill. He doesn't _feel_ dead! Olive thought.
Through the speculum, he felt her heat against his eye. It was a hot, Indian-summer day, and the apple mart was inland enough to miss what little sea breeze there was. They stood in the cider house (after Angel was born, on a night when Olive was looking after Angel). Who couldn't accept what _had_ happened? What was happening _now_ was what they knew Wally wanted to know, and they couldn't tell him.
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