My trouble is with your sister. She had very few clear memories before a particular day in the library, when they had finished one of her first reading lessons. “My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately. There is something sensual in the thought of lotus flowers. Capes flashed to an understanding of her intention, sprang to his feet, and opened the door for her retreat. That's the way she strikes me. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home.
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