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Influence

There was something odd. Moreau wished she could keep walking towards the kitchen table, where her mother was smiling happily with the man there, who had spent another night sleeping and then disappeared from civilization—even before she could shoo him away or at least suddenly jolt awake to face the unexpected fear.

Moreau had to admit that things were very well organized. Just not much about what was relevant last night; certainly not what she would call odd. Not about the familiarity there, but the striking difference on her stepfather's face.

Abihirt's jaw looked clean. It really was. How the new look made the man look much younger. She wondered... could this be influenced by last night's statement? Which then had a harsh effect when her stepfather finally decided to shave?

Moreau felt like laughing at the comparison in her mind. It certainly wasn't true. She didn't want to be big-headed. Might as well try to be fair, walk closer, come over to the kitchen tabl
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