A strange woman comes to my door one day in early March. It’s a rich area so we often have people selling things 1 喋喋不休) either. She 3 smiles shyly and puts a card in my hand: “Amy Turner. Pet Portraits Undertaken.”--dusters, make-up, frozen foods—but she doesn’t look like 2 saleswoman. She hasn’t got the patter (
I 4 my fingernail along the cheap gold edge of the card and look at her, waiting for 5 .
