So she said: “I won’t come home. It was an impulse. “There is my aunt,” she said. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. “You shall,” she said. He hasn't found himself, as they say. They walked past his old jungle gym set to a hilly park that dwelled sleepily beyond his house. "My child!" he groaned faintly.
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