She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. For a few moments, Thames regarded the little girl through the half-opened door in silence. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. The chair was torture.
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