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His second time here and my third.

I wonder if you live here, or perhaps if you come every few weeks, you ever grow tired of the first sight over the steep hill to the village below. Mary, are you used to it by now?

A few days – less time than the previous visits – but enough. Burning sun over the water, low and flat and cold on the millpond sea. Every day we wake, stained with smoke from last night’s fire and the dim grey of morning, with the hoping of a storm. On the far-off mountains there are the thin lines of snow – under our feet and around our knees, drifting eight feet high on the moors. Down by the water and on the headland: sucking mud and gorse scrubland.

The sky is so high above us.

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