John Michael Strubhart

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“What a nice pendant,” he said, with just that air of fatherly reserve she had always imagined he would have cultivated had he lived to see her adolescence. “Who gave it to you?” “Oh this,” she said, fingering the medallion. “Actually it’s from somebody I don’t know very well. He tested my faith. . . . He . . . But you must know all this already.”
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