She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. He, for his part, was trying to grasp the series of unexpected reactions that had so wrecked their tete-a-tete. Your disobedience be upon your own head. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions.
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