Beverly was about to burst.
This morning Cyril had used her best bowl to selfishly eat all the cold Sugar Clod Cereal so he could get the popular Pixie Powder Girl pin from the bottom of the box. Beverly swore it was his swan song, his ultimate sonata. It was serious enough he insisted on sampling her shoes and sleeping in her slip, now, there he sat, posing in her satin step-ins.
Beverly bought her bus ticket by saving buttons in the bottom drawer of her bureau. Saturday, she and baby Boop-Bop-Sh’Bam would be safely secreted in the spare room of cousin Sparrow’s spacious summer chalet in Sober-Sable, Saskatchewan. And so on.
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