Twisted Slough my life is a play, is a play

he is making no aggressive moves and by degree she relaxes, her naturally reckless and inquisitive nature winning out. the word he calls her - iubită​ - rings strangely in her ears, a delicate sound. do monsters speak with such dulcet tones? not that she is naive enough to think appearance defines action totally, and yet - and yet she offers him a crooked grin and a short burst of laughter, pushed up through her throat in a rush. "maybe i was made here," the girl says conspiratorially, and though the cold hands of anxiety have not relinquished their grip on her heart, she's a star. "an' left all alone in th'dark an' damp, hmm?"