Michelle’s eyes were red and bloodshot. At every step he seemed to be haunted by the ghost of the past. Pain sliced into Gerald’s hand and his sword arm jerked. He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. It reverberated in the silence. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter.
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