She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. "You're a bold fellow, Jack," rejoined the blacksmith. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. She did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections.
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