If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. And it hampers us. Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived.
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