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They Still Leap Over the Strid   She skips in front, then pins her feet like a soldier at drill, and points. ‘So here’s the Strid’, a stride beyond her stride, and air comes from it, colder than it is, perhaps, and down this six-foot-wide   breach in bedrock, those who slipped and died felt its oil-slick skin, its pull, each boulder beneath the imperfect glass. So when you tried to stop me leaping, I stopped, knowing I’d grown older.

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