( And then he's back again, umbrella alongside him, trickling close like the rain he seems to have — for now — eluded. He reaches again, and nearly touches, but withholds once more.
The dog-wolf isn't for petting today.
And he remembers, fleetingly, to spread his umbrella over Clara's head. )
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The dog-wolf isn't for petting today.
And he remembers, fleetingly, to spread his umbrella over Clara's head. )
I won't. I make things sick.