She had never even brought a friend home in her time at the Becks, let alone been asked on dates. ‘Come,’ she called. I always told you some accident would happen. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. I don't want her hurt. Silk.
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