She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. “I do mean that,” she declared. And―and he wanted to help you. 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.
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