She realized in a moment what had happened. Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip.
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