Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. Clotilde’s stunning green eyes were reflected in the gazes of the tender young children, but their faces had been hollow and sunken, their hair matted, and their clothing in bad need of repair. She had worn a long skirt that morning, and a roomier sweater that was slightly easier to handle than Shari’s low cut numbers. “How’s the star?” John’s father asked.
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