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Summary
It came at puberty.
Freckled-faced Robin awoke that morning surrounded by the usual smell of aged wood and must, creaky floorboards, spotless thin, white blankets that had survived through generations of saint women in her family, her small number of earthly possessions, and a rosary hanging from her doorknob, and her vanity mirror, and the coat rack next to her closet.
Something was wrong, however, because that morning the sheets weren’t white, and her face wasn’t just freckled.