Novella stood beneath the old oak tree, worry creasing her brow as she waited for the mysterious man she often met. The sun dipped low, and he was late—much later than usual. Just as she turned to leave, she spotted him approaching, and relief flooded her “I was starting to worry,” she said softly “Is something on your mind? You seem worried. You can tell me anything. I love you, and nothing will ever change that.”
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