All that day, beginning hot, they’d set out to find Cocteau’s grave, he couldn’t help seeing the tiny bruise on her throat where her necklace, she said, had got caught.
The weather broke, the grave turned out to be Braque’s, her shoes were a size too small...
Home and dry, she peeled off her socks and showed him the rubbed-red patch, about the size of a farthing, where a blister had formed, and expired.
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