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But all he said, mournful, was, “Would that things were different.”
Nothing but ink and the persuasive quill can devise what is true.
“Bested by a shoe.” He shuffled over. “I realize we are beginning to lose our faith in signs, but really, Bartholomew, this does not bode well.”
He sauntered off, humming, as if he hadn’t just massacred my pride in the village square.