Fiction | March 01, 1996

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Aug. 2. An over-heated wind all day, and the dust that rides on it, not simple dust but dirt itself, the earth itself.  The rags Ma stuffs in door and window sill hold back only some; and grit n her kitchen, on the oilcloth, pots, in the water-pail, a skin of it everywhere, near gives her fits.  With grit in our teeth, we spit black.

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