The tension was palpable. That is what my mother used to call me. She taught me how to crochet and cross stitch. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. Manning, with a baffling smile.
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