Auntie has taken the nails out of my palms, but the scars will always be there. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. She did not want to seem to shrink from conversation, but all sorts of odd questions were running through her mind. “The Widgetts,” she said. In the upper hall he paused to listen.
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