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... owly descending and landing as a crimson cloak draped loosely over her outstretched hand.
She recognized the stitching, the embroideries sewn across the hems-what it signified-every night, forced to bear the wicked smiles beneath the crimson hood. At once, the feeling of deep loathing sharped her eyes, and had only her muscles and mind been her own, she would have had the scarlet robes in the tiniest shreds, stamped hard beneath the might of her foot.
Instead, as was implored her ...
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