She clutched the book to her breast, with hands gloved in white, and she walked through the park. With her eyes and her half-frown, she dared someone to take it from her, this book that had made her heart beat as no man nor woman ever could.
She held it with the cover turned toward her body, so that only the back cover was exposed. Only the most observant would see what it was, whether by squinting at the photograph or squinting even harder at the bit of the biography her hands didn’t obscure. And the first person who spoke the author’s name to her without a question mark attached, that person she would stop for. That person, she would give a chance.
She walked the park from end to end, from day to night, from season to season.
Perhaps, if you go there now, you will find her walking still.
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