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Post by Kathy on Jan 2, 2008 22:33:56 GMT -5
*Having finished her chores late one night, Kathy went to the kitchen to find a salve for her hands, already chapped, her fingertips rough, swollen and sore from rubbing linens against the washboards.*
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Post by Michael on Jan 2, 2008 22:43:49 GMT -5
*Michael was in the kitchen, looking for something to eat, when he spied Kathy and her hands.*
"Oh, Kath. I've been meaning to talk to you: me mam sent a selve for yer hands after I mentioned something in a letter last month."
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Post by Kathy on Jan 2, 2008 22:46:24 GMT -5
"Ach, Mikey, ye didnae have to..." *she said gratefully.* "...but no one had healin' hands quite like yer mam."
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Post by Michael on Jan 2, 2008 22:48:20 GMT -5
"'Course not." *He teased.* "Nobody can beat Maryann O'Donegal MacNamara for healin' hands." *He grabbed her arm and steered her towards his room.*
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Post by Kathy on Jan 2, 2008 22:51:27 GMT -5
"Oh, aye, b-but--" *she frowned a little. She'd just planned on going straight back to her room--she was so tired. But what kind of friend abandoned someone who was clearly desperate for a chat and some company?*
He must be weary, too, surely.
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