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Old mare whose eyes are like cracked marbles, drools blood in her mash, shivers in her jute blanket.
My
father hates weakness worse than hail; in the morning without haste he will shoot her in the ear, once, shovel
her under in the north pasture.
Tonight leaving the stables he stands his lantern on an overturned water pail, turns,
cursing her for a bad bargain, and spreads his coat carefully over her sick shoulders.
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