We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. ‘Merci, Joan,’ cried Melusine, moving to her and seizing her hand which she clasped between both her own for a moment, as she turned to the others. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. My mom doesn’t realize that I’ve got my own style.
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