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I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “But perhaps I want to confess them. . Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. 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. ’ ‘And you believe her?’ asked Lucilla, raising her brows.
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