. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.
... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.
She'd slept terribly the night before. The room, the bed, were both comfortable enough, but she'd been plagued with strange dreams, the sort that lingered upon waking but slithered away from memory as she tried to grasp them. Only the tendrils of discomfort remained.
She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.
Hope's one thing, expectation's quite another.
But history is a faithless teller whose cruel recourse to hindsight makes fools of its actors.