She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. She was amazed that at over sixhundred years old that she could miss her parents so bitterly. She too had seen. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit.
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