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That night, Thorn insisted on staying in the room where Mariah lay. It was, after all, his room. |
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He sat in a wooden chair he had made by hand, at Mariah's bedside. She slept fitfully, tossing from side to side in her fever. |
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At least he could tell she still lived. But for how long? |
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Still, each time she awakened just a little, he ran to the hearth for a bowl of the loathsome concoction of broth and fungus that he simmered over the low fire all night. Cooling it, he propped Mariah in his arms and fed her all she would takeusually no more than a couple of spoonsful. |
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He watched Mariah's poor, flushed face with its closed eyes, their lashes curling over her cheeks, her waves of hair, damp from perspiration, unkempt upon her pillow. |
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Despite it all, she was beautiful. |
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And fragile. For the first time since she had appeared in his life, she could not stand up to him, defy him. Anger him. |
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He spoke to her quietly, now and then, knowing it was |
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