In the late fall of 1918, when the war hardly seemed over, and Anna, the daughter of a watchmaker, was sixteen, she let her father know that she thought what he did was not worthy — of her, of him, of the new country with which she was entirely comfortable and he could never be. This she conveyed not in words but in silences when there should have been words, in her expression, in a stare rather than an answer to a question. At sixteen, she was angry that he was as predictable as his watches and clocks, leaving for …
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