” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. She shook them off of one foot. ‘Oh, I don’t wish to marry you. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. At last she was roused. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate.
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