Every round’s a dress rehearsal for that day, right?” “Los Angeles is ten months away,” snapped Fen. Jake slept fitfully, wracked by half-dreams. There were clowns, little dogs with ruffs, a ring master and even a ballerina in a pink tutu, who slotted into a cantering horse with a pink plume. “I had dinner with Helen.
The sun had set and the trees and the houses, losing their distinctive features, were darkening against a glowing turquoise sky. “She needs at least a week’s rest,” said the British vet “A week,” said Fen, aghast. Griselda sweated and became more and more bad-tempered. Tory, my daughter, was doing the season in 1970.
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