The Stole of Scarlet
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- Parts 1
T'was twenty years ago, on a night just like to night, when an elderly women sat, spinning, ever spinning on a wheel of red yarn. Hands twining away like spiders on a web, caught every last strand as it twisted off the mechanism. The night darkened to a pitch, black as ink. She took up her needles and sat, rocking, ever rocking, in a creaky wooden chair, knitting ever knitting that brittle red yarn. T'was a night just like tonight . . .
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