She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. A bad man, in fact. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent.
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