Inside was Anna, leaning a little forward to watch the passers-by, bright-eyed, full to the brim of the insatiable curiosity of youth—the desire to understand and appreciate this new world in which she found herself. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. .
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