I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. ‘Do not say such things, you—you imbecile. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword.
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