“Emma, you are twenty-one years of age. You can dress in proper attire to receive a guest.” And so I did. I chose my grey afternoon dress, which I can manage myself, as the bodice secures in the front. It buttons, marching in a virtuous line up my neck, obscuring my lion pendant. A fact which very well may have saved my life. For upon entering the drawing room, I was met by the end of the world. There sat Aunt Eugenia.
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