“It’s the stir of spring,” he said. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone.
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