There was a young lad ahead of her. "I beg pardon," he said. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. An uncomfortable silence followed. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. I don't care how lonesome it is. I don’t want to stop your singing. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing.
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