It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. The man was dangerous. \"Ever thought about letting me do something with your hair?\" Not needing an answer, Shari got up and whipped out a vented brush from an overstuffed drawer. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. “I wish you would not do it.
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