I might as well try to build a ladder to heaven. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. She had started wearing the dresses he bought for her, the white and blue shift he said, “brings out the color in your eyes”. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels.
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