They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. “I’ve never been prone to them. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack.
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