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SHE HAD BEEN IN LOVE ONCE, or twice, or three times, and so when the moment came to open the jewelry box for her daughter, she hesitated. The box was stitched red silk, puffy and soft, padded and embroidered with flowers and leaves and birds. It was her heart: that was obvious. And when she opened the lid to all the hard, broken things, the pins and the clasps, her eyes darted back to her daughter. At that moment the fastest hands in the West were still resting like a bird on a bench.
"Will you be careful?" she asked in the tone she used to tell the child to stop throwing popcorn, or be still at the bank. The question was scripted, just a line; her anger never had any fire in it. And her concern for safety was so immense she could only whisper it.
"Yes, I'll be careful."
The rings were offered up like kissing lips, cozy coins, half suns behind the horizon. Not uniform at all, and not really very expensive, any of them, and...