The Southern Review, January 1st, 1993
Miss Eulalia Potts, librarian, was fond of dimming the lights four times - three short dims and then a long, like the opening bars of Beethoven's Fifth. Fate knocking at the door, whatever. She wished to forewarn the heavy readers with a touch of tasteful severity that in twenty minutes she would cast them out. They would surface briefly, eyes drugged with words, and plunge back in like earthworms trying to avoid the light, but a corner of the mind had been dismayed, could make a decision to check things out, even recall where the card was kept. It was a smallish sort of town, but for thirty...
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