It tore her apart. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. Capes was irritatingly judicial in the matter, neither absurdly against, in which case one might have smashed him, or hopelessly undecided, but tepidly sceptical. “Cheer up, Annabel. One keeps rules in order to be one’s self.
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