The story ran for nine days and then it stopped, which nobody had told her was how it worked.
There was one bad afternoon — a photographer at the end of the drive with a long lens, and a piece in a Sunday paper with a photograph of her from March and the word arrangement in the headline in inverted commas. Nora read it standing up in the kitchen and then went for a walk and was fine by the bottom of the hill, which four months earlier would have taken her a week.
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