He would always be her friend, too. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.
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