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chapter 27 UNEXPRESSED 9

  • SINCE THE NIGHT WE had together, she hasn't been herself. Her world has been empty and left to lie in the ridge of consolation. She believes she will see me again.  She believes she will have the nights at her fingers she had been starved from after the last night we had together. That part of nature, which made her went kooky and she lost her self in the middle of it all.
  • She has this instinct that I will definitely come back for her to pick the scripts I forget at her place. She long for this, so she can prison me at her grasp as in the previous weeks, Cathy never let go off her memories. Within her imagination locked in wanderings, Catherine tries to know the reason behind the first two letters I wrote. Who is Ebeline? I have refused to tell her.
  • She doesn't know where to start from. Who to ask the name Ebeline? Why do I have to cage this part of my life from her? What was in my mind when I was nestling my world with this name....Ebeline. In her mind, she was angry and confused, lost in the bank of her imagination; in my own head I also imagined what would be the pages unfolding.
  • Every flashback wave sound of the past in her head that she remembers what Helena said, “don't get too engross with it. It hurts.” But the other of her said, “No! I love to be with him. His love and gentle touch magnifies and makes me the unimaginable dove, the dungeon want to imprison but fail to do.” She went on to say, “I don't know what happened. It's all happens like speed of light. I can't let go this part of my life, slipping away from face.”
  • Catherine isn't herself. Her heart is two lanes: shadows of endless memories walks in and makes her revolve around herself, thinking while the seconds of life ticks backwards. In fact, everything about that night and every other days we spent together, made her go kooky. I know this.
  • It is not because of the spill alone but the letters she finally laid her hands on. Everything before other night, which got her reeling like broken surrey running ahead of it shadows. A turning wheel that the sprockets are arrows in her heart, day and night she blames herself I left without a kiss.
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