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Writer split in two: On Keogh’s My Name is Rose

A few weeks ago, I arrived, breathless, to meet Terry for a quick brunch at Rice before a (disappointing) matinee performance of The Black Watch. For once I wasn’t winded due to lateness. I’d just finished reading Theodora Keogh’s (at right) marvelous My Name is Rose* on the train, and I was ready to wax rhapsodic.   The novel is . . .

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