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'Listen like a miner,' Dad said, ' and you will always know your way out.'
'Yes,' I said, as if I understood.
I warmed him with broth by the fire. My eyes mapped the mountains of his shoulders and the cracked bowl of his hands hollowed out from the handle of the pick. I saw the dust of blue copper loosen from his fingers.' (Introduction)
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Last amended 9 Aug 2017 14:35:29
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