For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. Through a blur of tears Ruth followed the rocking light until it vanished. She heard the sounds of Rhea scuttling about, and then feeding, brutally. A cool gray light illuminated small portions of the stone floor. I am having them to my own soirée on Monday.
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