It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. She is curiously altered in many ways. ‘Me, I do not need the help of anyone. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor.
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