“I don’t know how, but I always manage to find a 164 fiddle if there is one around. I’m damaged goods. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like,’ he repeated blankly. We mustn’t make it so. He would provide the necessities of life and protect her. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade.
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