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getting out.
The ocean was gray, restless, immense.
Frank wrapped Margaret’s scarf around his neck.
“Well, Maggie,” he whispered. “We made it.”
He carried her diary to a bench overlooking the waves. From his coat pocket, he took a letter he had written in the motel the night before.
Dear Maggie,
I am in Maine. You would have complained about the cold and continue reading …
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