The digging work

The dark blue water of the cove sponges up light abruptly halved near the tortoise-shell lighthouse dealt a vigilant stance in bedrock the color of red cabbage. This hovel is ours, is complete as seed gone to flower: the cottage, one good boat, the bookcase ample as a corner newsstand, its titles ever new, ever dogeared, too, the digging work done years ago so now each character lives afresh where ``Our talk can always wait,'' or ``I think we are happiest turning the corner toward home.''

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