This time, the little blonde was there again. The focus of much of her observation; the purpose of her sitting on the porch at that moment.She took a ...ip of lemonade and fanned herself with a folding hand fan. Half to combat the oppressive heat, and half to combat the flush she felt every time she noticed the young blonde.Jane was twenty-nine. The young blonde who caught her eye was probably all of sixteen, if that. She was also very much a female.Oddly Jane was a widow. Not a common situation. ..Here's my story as an urban grad school student in Richmond, VA. I'm driving home after classes, when I see a cute redhead girl in a short skirt hitch-hiking, looking for a ride in the opposite direction. Well I was always horny then, so I made a U-turn to pick her up.She got in and was very friendly about talking. Pretty soon she asked me, "You seem a little nervous. Is there something I said?" No, not at all." And after a pause to get my nerve up, I continued. "I just find you so. Fear? Hope? Or maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe she was just nervous. I certainly knew how that felt.I shook my head and waved towards the empty seats, too dumbfounded to speak. In all the time we’d been in the same school, I couldn’t recall ever having a single conversation with Clarissa Liddington. It wasn’t done. I was a Townie after all.There were two very clearly defined cliques at Micester High—The Villagers and The Townies. The Townies lived, as you can imagine, on the. ” Surprisingly, he nodded. They moved a few steps away.“I am sorry, mother.”“Hush … this isn’t your fault. It is mine. I thought I was protecting you by hiding some details. Now, you must listen carefully before they pull us apart.” Ariana nodded, still numb by the turn of events. “Ariana, remember the stories, everything I have told you. Remember the Princess of the stories? You are the Princess. You must believe that. For the people, you must believe that. You are marked, a birthmark on you.
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