“It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. It was not for a week or a month. 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. ’ But I made sure it was you. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. “My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately. .
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