But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. The chair was torture. "You're wanted. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. Makes you real. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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