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Here s Looking At You
Sam held the black-and-white photograph of his first wife in the gnarled fingers of his hand. “Here’s looking at you, kid!” he said, holding it up towards his failing eyes, as much aware of the liver spot on the back of his hand as of Jenny’s prim beauty. Her hands were crossed over a pleated knee-length skirt and her face shone in the monochrome sunlight of a distant age. All Sam’s memories were in black and white. At the time they were all in the same colour as any photograph taken in the...
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