She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. Teenagers don’t have any power, not of any sort, not in your world, not in the old world. "Mother!" she echoed,—"mother! why do you call me by that name?" "Because you are my mother. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears.
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