by dawn's light.
#4
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The boy smiled at his mother's use of French - the language honestly intrigued him. He was learning much of it, and was pleased to be doing do, and so he decided to speak briefly back; ma jolie mère. My pretty mother. That was what she was; beautiful. At least, he thought so; no one was as pretty as her, when she smiled.


Tic-tac-toe? What was that? It has a funny name. How do you play? He eyed her intently. He knew many running games, rough-housing games, but no games that involved... a funny grid-thing, or whatever it was that she had drawn on the ground. What did it do? What's that thing for?

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