My athletic 12-year-old niece tells me absently mid-air, looking down, “I hate my feet; they’re so ugly,” while wiggling ten perfectly adorable toes.
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I handed them to her in a see-through sleeve of cellophane, flourished with a slender satin bow. Even without abandoning the sash of purple or thin outer garment, one could plainly see their inner ruddiness and wild, unexpressed containment.
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