“The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. ‘Always he is busy about my affairs.
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