文学 · 史蒂芬妮·梅爾
The reasons I was so certain were that, first, I was standing in a bright shaft of sunlight&mdashthe kind of blinding clear sun that never shone on my drizzly new hometown in Forks, Washington&mdashand second, I was looking at my Grandma Marie. Gran had been dead for six years now, so that was solid evidence toward the dream theory. Gran hadn't changed much her face looked just the same as I remembered it. The skin was soft and withered, bent into a thousand tiny creases that clung gently to
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