
When she thinks of Emily, Gilbert, or her cousin Sophia, who died at age fifteen, Lavinia sees them as they were in the spring or summer of their lives, carefree as puppies. But she knows that the truth is entirely different, more marvellous still; their fragile flesh has broken down, their bones are as smooth as piano keys, their hair is like spider silk, their hearts, their lungs, the whites of their eyes...
cont'd