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There was something unnatural about her. She seemed to shine, as if lit up by a star shell, straight overhead, but there were no flares or shells in the sky. And her clothes were spotlessly clean, her shoes and dress unblemished by the mud. She did not belong there, she was out of place, and George could only guess at what she was.
"A spirit…" he whispered in awe. A wandering soul, a ghost from earlier, more innocent times. Copyright (c) Richard Smith 2008 |
