Manning loved her presented itself to her bloodlessly, stilled from any imaginative quiver or thrill of passion or disgust. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. She dressed rapidly and left the theatre without a word to any one. Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. She fixed her eyes upon it and ran, keeping always as far as possible in the shadow of the hedge, gazing fearfully every now and then down along the valley for the white smoke of the train. ‘You said she was beautiful.
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