D. J Enright


— running, skipping, barefoot on the covered pavement of the shophouse where

they Hved; her mother not best pleased: unholy infant! No one reports

seeing her walk like a tender young willow shoot in a spriilg breeze exactly.

What was the point of pointy feet? You couldn't even play hopscotch

with them. Three-inch lotus petals my foot!



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