The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-20 10:44:27 -

The silk gloves, white as the first snow that had ever fallen on the hill above our house, were rotting in the bottom of the cedar chest, a fact that I did not want to speak of because speaking of them meant acknowledging that the time when we were clean and holy and entirely apart from the rest of the world was gone, and I told my mother, who stood by the window watching the rain streak the...

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