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They first met at the age of eight.

“Mom, it’s my birthday next Saturday, will I receive your present?”

Mrs. Grant showed utter indifference. “Mavis.” A warning tone, with gritted teeth. The mother Grabbed the daughter by the arm. Her nails sank into Mavis’ flesh.

“Sorry, mother.” The girl’s head drooped.

They were surrounded by ever-loudening gossips

Scott, carrying me in his hands—he had just bought me from the grocery store—watched the newcomers as they entered an old cottage and went out of sight.

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