She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. “Come sit with me, beautiful. ‘You do not say, “I am a gentleman born. Both, perhaps?’ At that, her eyes darkened with fury. Their flitting hands were always touching. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. I am no use for a clerk, because I do not understand shorthand.
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