She skipped around the garden that morning: Her voice pirouetting in octaves high, higher and low intermingled with fioriture, like crystalline dewdrops resting on the soft curves of blooming buds, and there she danced around with flushed checks and squinty eyes because it was morning and because her tiny eyes were otherwise defenseless against the burn of the developing midafternoon sun; later, as I sat in my armchair taciturn and somber, I thought to myself how I might pine for her fill the empty window frame and how I might cleave to the memory of that one June day.
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