But her heart kept on sinking. We are alone and we can say and do what we please. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. ‘I am sorry to hear of your misfortunes.
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