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Chapter 57 - Fifty Seven
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... oxgloves. Ines quietly sat on the stone bench, her hands gripping the leather cover of the book in her lap so tightly that her knuckles were white.
She stared at Carcel. She was waiting for the punchline. She was waiting for the laugh. She was waiting for him to tell her that he was joking, that her scribblings were the silly fantasies of a bored spinster, fit only for the fireplace.
"Are you teasing me?" she asked. Her voice was small, suspicious, and threaded with a fragile hop ...
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