She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. Taber is the name. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. She felt her canines grow, the hunger consuming her. If you want advice, your aunt is the person.
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