She had never had a real doll. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. All the king's horses and all the king's men could not undo what was done; nor kill the strange exquisite flower that had grown up in his own lonely heart. I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. Byby. You need not be afraid. They were the same.
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