I don’t suppose you could tell me even the derivation of suffrage if I asked you. ‘God loves you, even if your father didn’t. Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. “You stupid bitch. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. She rapped again, louder. Andrews novels, her collection of old teddy bears, Paddington 2 minus his yellow hat, a yellowing white bear won in a carnival with one eye missing. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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