Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. She had tasted freedom now, and so far she had not felt the need of protection. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. He uttered her name and his excitement grew when he did not feel a bra. Answering him was agonizing. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said.
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