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Quizá no supe cómo amar Blanca. De haber hecho las cosas sólo un poco mejor ahora no tendría este aspecto de armario, roto y desvencijado, y no caminaría con la lágrima en la garganta y es posible que ese bote de hojalata, cuyo estrépito ha asustado a las palomas, no me hubiera dolido como duele la soledad cuando llega el otoño.
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