Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand.
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