"You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins.
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