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“You're the writer,' he repeated, thought he didn't move his hand away. How strange it felt, the growing warmth pressing through the cold, cold water. So comfortable and familiar and welcome, and yet...and yet...” — Margaret Stohl
You're the writer,' he repeated, thought he didn't move his hand away. How strange it felt, the growing warmth pressing through the cold, cold water. So comfortable and familiar and welcome, and yet...and yet...