His voice now had lost its ironies. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. "God in Heaven bless you, unhappy boy!" cried. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. “She was the High Priestess who turned me in Greece, before Rome. Lucia watched in fascination as Isobella nodded at her, only three years older than she, nursing her son with a contented smile upon her face. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school.
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