” “I like the mystical way,” she said. She had no place she loved. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall. "I will struggle no longer with destiny.
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