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Love these days was exorbitant she mused. Trust was an antique, found only in the collector's chest and time? Oh time was a rare visitor who fancied the changing seasons. Each tangle cost a strand, every kiss was a promise on blank paper. Of course, true love was magic, and magic was a rare commodity to come by these days. But there was something more pressing than the price. To find the one and not empty your life's savings of love would be such a disappointment. And so she waited. They called her a miser when it came to love.

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