"The child," my wife said, motioning at our daughter who
was in the midst of a tantrum. "That child is really quite
wise." The gin she had unearthed from the servants' quarters
splashed onto the torn pages littering the library floor. The girl
had made her way from the Ancient Egyptian section to the Classical
period. She was currently screaming and pulling out a chapter on
Nero.
"Such raw emotion. She puts so much value in such a small,
mundane thing." She bent over, examining the girl's tears and
blotchy skin. "We would pass the thing off as beneath us."
She took a large mouthful from the tumbler. "And the emotion.
August, when have we last showed such ... raw emotion?" I
shrugged. "Genius," she said. Her head swung towards me,
eyes unfocused and she began chewing on her lip. "A silver ..."
she began. "A silver comb." Then her eyes began to well up,
and her lip to quiver. She dropped hard on her posterior beside our
daughter. The rest of her gin splashed over the girl's leg. "August!"
my wife wailed. "I want one." She grabbed the book out of
our daughter's hands and began to rip out the next chapter. "I
want it now. Right ... now."
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