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Suzannes Diary for Nicholas Suzannes Diary for Nicholas Suzannes Diary for Nicholas KATIE WILKINSON sat in warm bathwater in the weird but wonderful old-fashioned porcelain tub in her New York apartment. The apartment exuded “old” and “worn” in ways that practitioners of shabby chic couldn't begin to imagine. Katie's Persian cat, Guinevere, looking like a favorite gray wool sweater, was perched on the sink. Her black Labrador, Merlin, sat in the doorway leading to the bedroom. They watched Katie as if they were afraid for her. She lowered her head when she finished reading the diary and set the leatherbound book on the wooden stool beside the tub. Her body shivered. Then she started to sob, and Katie saw that her hands were shaking. She was losing it, and she didn't lose it often. She was a strong person, and always had been. Katie whispered words she'd once heard in her father's church in Asheboro, North Carolina. “Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, are you anywhere, my Lord?” She could never
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