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By Maurice Samuels
LETTERS TO CAMONDO
By Edmund de Waal
Three unwieldy boxes of porcelain collect dust in the basement of my building. Sealed away after my grandmother’s death 30 years ago, they contain rococo lamps, fragile urns and multiple sets of gilt-edged china that can’t go in the dishwasher. I will probably never unpack these impractical relics. But I keep them because they represent a link — beautiful yet brittle — to people I have lost.
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