He would know her address to-morrow. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze. When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers—the garden trim and exquisitely kept. When she awoke from a pleasant dream an hour later, she was shocked to find herself restrained in a bed that was not hers and not the inn’s.
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