The stars were whispering to her tonight and Drusilla was out in the evening night, clad in a
white dress she remembered wearing a long, long time ago. She even fixed her hair with curls the way it used to be. She was led to the top of the hotel where she currently walked along the edge of the roof humming a song softly to herself. It was a song
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"I do hope you're the immortal type, seeing as your balance could use some work," he spoke as he ambled past the woman, his eyes on the lookout for any patches of stubborn ice on that ledge.
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Of course, the blonde was from 1891 and somewhere in Europe.
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"My lady, is all well with you?" I don't want to startle her, certainly, not so close to the edge of the roof.
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"Cannot feel your heart? Do you mean that you've gone numb from loss of feeling?" Perhaps someone close to her has left the village. "Or do you mean you cannot feel it beating? I often cannot feel mine."
Perhaps she is trying to frighten herself so that it beats harder? I'm not sure.
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