She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. She decided to go on, after a momentary halt. You are to come home. ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering. I wasn’t. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain.
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