Mrs Snelling propped her tired, old flesh in the children’s corner of the library, surrounded by a circle of young, fresh faces. They sat, Indian style, at the feet of the master, eyes open to catch the dew of wisdom that dripped from the magic vapor of her words.
She cleared her throat. “Well, children. What story do you want to hear today?”
“I wanna hear a true story,” said little Bobby Jenkinson.
Mrs Snelling gave a warm smile, turned the first page of Arabian Nights with the gnarled roots that were here arthritic hands.
“Ah, but they’re all true.”
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