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his cloak so dark over his broad back it stole the dim light around us.
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Weeds clung to the hem of my skirt, and untrimmed branches reached for my hair as we trod deeper into the thicket, the brambles unaccustomed to visitors—the path almost hidden.
When I spoke, the low notes of my voice were slick, as if dipped in oil. “Perhaps it was he who got away from me.”

