She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. ‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours. I will have nothing to do with you.
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