She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. "I'll see him fettered myself. She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade.
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