What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. Teenage boys never change, she thought to herself. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. ‘Certainly no one will find it. "Because she's a fire-opal, and to the world at large they bring bad luck.
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