A NovelBook - 2009
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We rarely had guests at the Homestead during the winter break. I had talked my mom into paying me two dollars an hour to sit at the front desk (I was saving for new bedroom decorations), and I always enjoyed listening to the top songs of the year on WLS while reviewing the guest registry. Visits from Heroines in 1973 had been a little slim. March had brought Daisy Buchanan (a real pain): in August Ophelia had arrived. The clock ticked, and I was so bored I alomost wished another Heroine would waltz through the door. As if I had some gift of conjuring (which I didn't), the door banged open and a woman staggered into the foyer. Her black hair was wild, her face as white as the snowy birch trees outside. She had mauve circles beneath her eyes, but one glimpse at their jade colour and her tiny waist told me instantly who she was, though she wasn't quite as beautiful as Vivien Leigh. She reached a shaky hand to the desk for support, then collapsed on the cold tile with a sickening thud.
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