Stanley looked uncertainly at his hand, then at Clyde Livingston's wife.
She winked at him. He felt himself blush, and turned away toward Hector, who was sitting on the floor in front of an overstuffed chair.
A woman sitting in the chair behind Hector was absent-mindedly fluffing his hair with her fingers.
She wasn't very old, but her skin had a weathered look to it, almost like leather.
Her eyes seemed weary, as if she'd seen too many things in her life that she didn't want to see, and when she smiled, her mouth seemed too big for her face.
Very softly, she half sang, half hummed a song that her grandmother used to sing to her when she was a little girl.
If only, if only, the moon speaks no reply; Reflecting the sun and all that's gone by.
Be strong my weary wolf, turn around boldly. Fly high, my baby bird, My angel, my only.
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