The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. She lifted the sheet and gestured for him to join her. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. He waited. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals. Thanks. Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile.
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