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The Train

Ann Cavitt Fisher

Train compartment,Copyright habrda / 123RF Stock Photo

Life, love, and death on a trip from Amsterdam to Paris.

The train picked up speed as it left the station in a little town not far from Amsterdam. We passed so close to a row of houses I felt I could touch them, all neat, all the same. Lace curtains hung in each window, and a dusting of the recent snow still held on the roofs.

The sun’s rays sparkled on the window, refracting light into the cabin of the train. It was cold. I pulled my coat from the seat next to me onto my lap to stop the draft on my legs. My gothic architecture book lay open to the chapter on St. Denis. Reading in French seemed more difficult than usual, and I found myself going over the same paragraph again.

When the cabin door opened with a jarring SNAP, I gave a rabbit-like start as a man stepped into the compartment…

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oranges and lemon sold for a penny, all the school girls are so many, the grass is so green, and the rose is so red remember me, when you are ........

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