Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed.
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