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The handbag set next to her is slightly open, like a yawning animal, revealing fragments of a hidden reality, but without clearly unveiling her private life. A heroine’s modesty. A second skin, a cloud of cedar. A private journal. Her laughter rises like a ring of smoke. A perfect circle that you would like to swirl around your finger to see that it is as pure as crystal. Her hair is a theatre curtain. Tied up. Then untied and let down. The stage is her shoulder. A hair tie. The base of her neck.