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ORACLE
Her
thumb caressed the young lifeline of
his
elegant palm. The cause was
her
unalterable
eyes: the smudged cloth
and
shrivelled flame did not seem to stir
in
him suspicion or mar belief.
What
else was a mesmeriser for?
Her
glass rings and auburn soulless robe,
mummied
polecat and frayed exit-slit,
scimitars
and snakeskin: only hope
of
the most innocent kind could get
possession
here, causing faith to leap
into
the beautiful eyes of fate.
Gallantly
feigning not to feel her
steal
his ring, he bowing backward left,
and
whether the gods were playing fair
or
mere luck had its way or her gift
was
greater than she guessed, his years were
many,
bountiful, and he was loved.
Alan
Marshfield
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