“I said you could have a rest,” her father says when Celia refuses, not even looking up from the pile of
papers he has spread across the dining table. “You’ve had three days, that should suffice. You look fine.
You’re going to be even prettier than your mother someday.”
“I’m surprised you remember what my mother looked like,” Celia says.
“Do you?” her father asks, glancing up at her and continuing when she only frowns in response. “I may
only have spent a matter of weeks in her company, but I remember her with more clarity than you do, and
you had her for five years. Time is a peculiar thing. You’ll learn that eventually.”
He returns his attention to his papers.
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