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It was a new building, painter yellow, with a shingled roof that was not like the red tile of the school in Mazatlán. I noticed other differences, none of them very reassuring.
And when I least expected it, there she was, crouching by my desk, her blond radiant face level with mine, her voice patiently maneuvering me over the awful idiocies of the English language.
I received private lessons from Miss Ryan in the closet, a narrow hall off the classroom with a door at each end.
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