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I can only imagine what Cynthia must have thought when she read the letter.
Was she alarmed?
Did she think, “I don’t know this Jennifer; this isn’t the slightly kooky Jennifer I grew up with. This is a wild, rambling Jennifer, who’s into illicit drugs and indiscriminate sex.”
So it seemed.
But much of that letter was exaggerated, hyped to present a persona invented not to inform but to impress.
Cynthia was not impressed; she was terrified at what she thought I had become and turned the letter over to my grandmother, Olive Semple.
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