She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. 13 with a latchkey went humming lightly up to her room. “I saw you in a sort of sloping, slippery place, holding on by your hands and slipping.
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