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swyllh · 6 years

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[wonwoo] my mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun

title: my mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun [from sonnet 130]

pairing: wonwoo x reader

word count: 3081

genre: fluff. just. fluff.

"leav me alone," you curse, catching a high-five from vernon. it's a good pun. you've been waiting to use it since thinking it up last sunday night when you were bitching with seungkwan.

you: 192, wonwoo: 192. boom.

wonwoo rolls his eyes. "one measly poet doesn't diminish the value of page poetry."

you scoff, "yeah it just olib-obil- fucking- oblierated your argument on publishers being gatekeepers of page poetry."

"obliterated," wonwoo corrects scathingly. that despicable raccoon. "at least it's better than not having a gateway at all."

"no, because slam is fundamentally different," you say between gritted teeth.

wonwoo starts packing his bag. "so it's not poetry, you admit?"

god. you raise your heads to the high heavens, and are met with the questionable, green remnants of that-incident-with-jeonghan-and-seokmin on the ceiling. the clatter of the ceiling fan offers no enlightenment. why do idiots roam freely among us, you ask. brr, brr, cries the fan.

wonwoo: 193, you: 192.

"no!" you exclaim.

wonwoo raises an eyebrow, shifting his bag strap on his bony shoulder. one day he'll fall onto his own shoulder and puncture his huge, inflated ego. one day. "no, it's not poetry?"

"i am not conceding," you snap back.

"so there is something to concede."

wonwoo: 194, you: 192.

you chase after him angrily. damn long legs. he'd have been executed in some ancient civilisation for being so freakishly tall. freaking slender man.

"poems weren't written down at first - that's an eurocentric notion that dismisses other groups of people who didn't have written language," you pause to catch for breath.

as you amble past jeonghan, he reaches out and ruffles your head without so much as a look in your direction; your rowdy garnish arguments are a common occurrence in the east wing now. at precisely 10:14am the sounds of heavy sarcasm and undiluted exasperation ring throughout the hallway like clockwork.

"poetry came from songs, odes," you wave your hand around to gesture other unnamed synonyms. "slam poetry represents a revolution - not just because it introduces newer concerns and techniques of rhyme and rhythm, but because it is a tribute to older times."

wonwoo holds up a hand. you shove it away. "don't interrupt me."

he quirks an eyebrow. you find you have nothing else to add. "okay, interrupt me."

"as poetic as your argument sounds," he says, slowing down as you near the corner before you part, "you do realise that nobody's consciously paying tribute to the ancient origins of poetry and hymns, right?"

you roll your eyes. "even if they don't have the intent, so what?"

"so what, indeed," wonwoo echoes softly. there's got to be menace lurking somewhere in his words.

you puff your chest out, ready to defend slam poetry's honour to the very last. wonwoo stares at you. and then his watch. and then back at you again.

"w-what?" you say, not stuttering. "well, if they don't have the intent then doesn't it also show like, a return to some common ground? of humanity or something."

"you mean to say that slam poetry is innate?" wonwoo deadpans. "like how newborn babies come out -"

you roll your eyes. "no! i mean the rhythm. the need to vocalise."

wonwoo crosses his arms. "interruption deduction."

wonwoo: 194, you: 191.

"hey! you interrupted me earlier!" you bite back.

"technically you had nothing left to say." and then, "what about babies born deaf or dumb?"

you hate how slimey his reasoning is. there's got to be some loophole. this guy's got the soul of a lawyer but the major of an english lit. what the heck.

you huff, squaring your shoulders. "that's because you interrupted my train of thought! and about disabled babies -"

"you need to think faster," he says quickly. "what was it about disabled babies?"

... wonwoo: 195, you: 191.

you settle for crossing your arms, leaning against the wall of the intersection. "well, i concede the point about disabled babies, but only because the nuance is controversial and cannot be covered in a fast-paced environment as such."

as you finish your sentence, the bell rings. wonwoo eyes you cautiously. the rush of students stampeding off to their next class breezes past the both of you, cocooning you in a whirl of noises and varying degrees of body odour or thickly-layered deodorant.

wonwoo leans in, and repeats a set of numbers to you.

"...380," you echo back.

he nods, and turns to join the stream of migrating salmon towards their final destination. advanced calculus. what a nerd. you can't believe you actually know someone who takes that willingly in the arts stream.

"...380," you repeat, walking off to your own class.

"so you're telling me," kimmy says, placing a hand in front of you.

"interruption deduction," you blurt out.

kimmy retracts her hand warily like you're a particularly grotesque descendant of some arachnid monstrosity. "you have jargons. ugh."

"kinky," chan says, tapping at his game.

kimmy shoves him out of the seat. chan winces, though his fingers never leave the screen.

"freaking hell, i almost died!"

kimmy snaps her fingers at you again. "you mean to say he gave you his number after that weird mating ritual you guys went through."

you hold up a finger. "first, yes, but only to continue the argument, and secondly, it's not a mating ritual. he's wrong about-"

"but it is weird," kimmy says. "you talk to the guy you claim to hate-"

"-he's misguided and-"

"-you claim to hate," kimmy emphasises, slamming your finger down, "every. single. lit class, and it's not even for class participation."

"that's a good idea," chan says, thumbs pummelling down on his phone. "two birds with one stone."

kimmy grabs your hands, beseeching. "please just use your head and think."

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_seventeen+right+here_11294

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_like+ocean+waves_11653

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_twenty+four+seven_12472

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_boom+boom_18273

you [1902]: http://watchtube/video_knob_poetry_gibun+gibun+gibun_17349

wonwoo [2024]: jesus christ.

wonwoo [2045]: alright, some of them are good.

you [2046]: see??????

wonwoo [2046]: always exceptions to the rule.

you [2046]: u g h

you [2046]: are you serious

wonwoo [2047]: i did say some of them were good.

you [2047]: h a

wonwoo [2047]: i never said there weren't good ones.

wonwoo [2047]: i just said that page poetry is generally of higher quality.

you [2048]: by what standards?

wonwoo [2048]: you haven't been able to prove the longevity of any particular slam poem.

wonwoo [2048]: wouldn't you say that's the problem?

wonwoo [2048]: its circulation isn't tied to any specific culture or reinforced thereafter.

wonwoo [2049]: therefore: oral tradition doesn't apply here.

you [2050]: ..........

you [2050]: why longevity? why does it need to be tied to any culture? why rate slam according to the criteria of page poetry?

wonwoo [2050]: that's because you haven't set a criteria.

wonwoo [2051]: boom.

you [2051]: christ.

you [2051]: brb im going to work on history essay

you [2053]: this is n o t a cowardly retreat!!!!!!!!!!

wonwoo [2053]: you said it

you [2054]: i will be back!!!!!!!!!!

when you join her at lunch, kimmy gives you an odd look. you respond by pretending to change tables. she holds you down.

"where's wonwoo?" she says.

you roll your eyes. "join the club."

"no, seriously," she says, angling her head to glance behind you. "where is he?"

"how would i know?" you throw your hands up in the air, narrowly endangering your cutlery. "first vernon, then jeonghan, then professor lee, then this weird guy from whatever abstract math, then-"

kimmy pulls away. "from math?"

you fling your hands out at her, smiling widely at her scrunched up nose. "don't worry. i made sure to sanitise myself after contact."

kimmy groans. "not the point."

"then?" you wag an eyebrow. "you were spooked when he started joining our table."

"yeah," kimmy deadpans, picking up her chopsticks and pointing them at you. a dribble of soy sauce falls from it. "but since then he's been coming over every day without fail to bicker with you and so i got used to it."

you spread your arms out, appreciating the space and the rare stab of freedom and uncontested territory. "and now we are delivered from all our burdens."

kimmy pokes around at her noodles. "so you don't know where he is."

"lady!" you exclaim, jabbing your fork at her fishball. "no! i'm not a wonwoo-detector!"

she pauses, ignoring your heist. "you have his number."

"yeah?"

kimmy gives you a meaningful look. "are you going to check if he's sick?"

"why?"

you've done it. kimmy's finally reached maximum-incredulity. for a moment you feel the urge to reach over your head to see if you've sprouted extra limbs or a third eye. with the way she's gawking at you, you think you might have regressed into a blobfish.

she presses a hand to her temples. sighs, and then steadies herself. "okay. at the very, very least, aren't you going to make sure he doesn't miss anything in class."

you think about it. "he's got other friends."

kimmy presses her fingers together like a steeple over her nose. BOI. "you are his friend."

"i wouldn't say friend," you say, shuddering at the word, even as you tug your phone out. "it's more, like-?"

you choke out a questionable, questioning sound. kimmy has a glimmer of hope in her eyes before sighing it away again.

you [1236]: hey you sick?

wonwoo [1236]: yeah, a bit.

"yeah, he's sick," you report.

kimmy chews on her noodles. "tell him about class?"

you [1238]: so for lit today we went through freudian vs feminism, as well as why slam is better than page, and the homework is reading chapters 11-13

wonwoo [1238]: nice try.

you [1239]: you're not that sick then

wonwoo [1239]: i haven't moved an inch since freefalling onto my bed at 7 last night.

you [1240]: müde

wonwoo [1241]: is that german?

you [1241]: pun.

wonwoo [1242]: if you have to explain it it's not that good.

you [1242]: precautionary measures for a foolproof pun.

wonwoo [1243]: hey i'm sick remember

you [1243]: whats new

"it's cute and all," kimmy interrupts, drawing your attention back up to her, "to see you smile like a fool, but we got five more minutes and your food isn't gonna eat itself."

you frown, hard. "not smiling like a fool."

kimmy waves you away. "just eat."

when she rises to put away her tray, you turn back to your phone.

wonwoo [1244]: mean :(

wonwoo [1245]: ?

you [1247]: gtg class

wonwoo [1247]: oh okay bye

you [1247]: ttyl

wonwoo [1250]: thanks, btw.

you[1251]: np

mingyu, from his other class, saddles you with a stack of math notes. holding them in your arms feels like an allergic reaction. you follow his haphazard instructions to get to wonwoo's room. the security guard doesn't even blink when you walk into the building. so you do.

the dorms are unexpectedly clean. doors are plain and apparently functional, the hallway is well lit, and noise isn't much of a concern. then again, it is a school day.

you reach wonwoo's room. knock twice. the door opens to show a young lady with a dark red lip.

"is this wonwoo's room?"

she nods. "yeah, he's sleeping now."

you notice the way she's got on a too-large shirt. wonwoo's worn that in one of your lit classes. you hand her the stack of notes.

"these are from his math class."

she takes them. "ah, thank you! is there anything you want me to tell him when he wakes up?"

"no," you say.

the door closes on you. you look down and see a pair of black strappy heels next to plain sneakers.

wonwoo [2143]: did you come over?

you [2146]: yeah

wonwoo [2146]: thanks, for the notes.

you [2148]: np

the reality of things don't sink in until you're stuck in a library cubicle, knees barely brushing against wonwoo's (that giant) and huddling over the table to doodle little devils on his side of the paper. you glance up, head almost bumping into wonwoo's, and then zip back down to jot another idea.

come to college, they said. it would be intellectually stimulating, they said.

you can't believe you're prepping for a presentation by going through all of your arguments for and against slam poetry with him. it's all chan's fault, you think bitterly, watch as he separates argument from argument with careful underlines. suggesting to actually make this class participation.

talk about exploitation. something doesn't sit right with you.

"so when we debate," wonwoo whispers, focused and oblivious. "you'll bring up this point in rebuttal to this. see how that works?"

you hum. "yeah."

"right. then for closing-"

you crash your head into the table with an obnoxiously loud slam. wonwoo flinches in his seat. the librarian narrows her beady eyes on the both of you.

"i think we'll get an a for this," you mutter.

wonwoo looks at you, caps his pen, and leans back in his seat.

the debate goes well. everything happens as anticipated. you're able to uphold the integrity of academic investigation. whatever that means. wonwoo doesn't interrupt you. the nuances of your arguments are spared sufficient time before their expiration.

(he looks bored.)

but that all goes to hell when you realise the class gets to vote. you turn on wonwoo: did you know this?

he averts his eyes. a sure sign of guilt.

something gnaws inside of you, worse than that time when you found kimmy's concoction of green onions, dr pepper and baking soda. it was an infusion alright. but the smell left you retching for days on end.

the worst thing is, you don't know why you feel this way now.

you don't know who won. everything happened in a blur and now you're stomping out of the hallway, tugging the zip of your bag close. wonwoo catches up. you walk faster.

"well, congrats," he says.

"take your congratulations and shove it up your ass," you bite back.

wonwoo holds his hands up. "what's wrong?"

you swivel to a stop, fixing him with a shrivelling glare. "leave me alone."

wonwoo backs off. you turn the corner and run for class.

wonwoo [1225]: hey are you alright? wonwoo [1227]: what's wrong? wonwoo [1232]: is it something i did? wonwoo [1240]: ?? wonwoo [1255]: i'm sorry? - "you look like shit," is the first thing kimmy says to you. "is it wonwoo?"

you stab at her fishball. "no."

she rolls her eyes. "i didn't hear anything when i was walking over from the north wing, so something's up."

"nothing's up."

kimmy shakes her head, placing his chopsticks down. "when you come running to my class crying, i think something's up."

you scowl at her. she winks back. and then rearranges her face to something more sombre.

"did you guys..." she leans in. "break up?"

you swat at her. "what?"

chan slides into the seat next to her. "i've been summoned by the allusions to love."

kimmy shoves him. "just because you play love live doesn't mean shit."

to you, she says, "look. you have his number-"

"i have your number too."

she pinches your lips together. "shut up. you walk each other to the next class faithfully without fail-"

you swat her hand away. "that's because he's being a prick-"

"you have inside jokes that nobody else gets."

"that's the point of inside jokes."

kimmy squeezes your cheeks together this time. god, those hand grips are working. "when he's gone, people ask you where he is. after that debate, you came to me crying. and the best part is you let him steal your fries."

she releases her hold on you, allowing you the chance to breathe. and then immediately choke.

kimmy, satisfied, returns to eating.

"oh my god," you say, eyes wide. "oh."

"yeah," kimmy echoes, "oh."

the realisation does you no favours. "...he's off-limits. he's got a girlfriend."

chan finally detaches from his game. the whimsical sounds of squeaky little gems fade away as

he lets his character die. "what?"

"there was a girl in his room," you say.

kimmy rounds up on chan. "you never said anything."

"i didn't know!" chan protests, "i thought-"

he falls silent. you stuff your face with fries.

the rest of the week is horrible. you can't help but notice how wonwoo pulls out his phone, sighs, and replaces it in his pocket before shooting you looks. it sucks, really, to be so aware and want to not be.

before you can pack up and leave, though, wonwoo strides over with his freakishly long legs. "saturday night."

you look at the pamphlet he's offering you. slam night.

"please come," he says, exhaling slowly. "at least - consider it."

he leaves it in your hands, and bolts out of class.

you hate that you're considering it. you hate that you're already here. you hate that you're still hoping. there's no reading between the lines because everything is so blurred and reckless and there is no way out of this. so here you are, sitting at the side, going to this slam because you've gone to all the other slams anyway.

"hey, you're wonwoo's friend," a girl says.

you look up. it's the girl with the red lip. "yeah."

she smiles, sitting down gracefully next to you. "that idiot said he'd be slamming."

maybe you should have gone home. out of all you'd expected from this evening, you didn't think sitting with your crush's girlfriend is one of them.

"maybe he's trying to impress someone," she continues, winking at you. "my brother can be so thick."

before you can ask her what she means, the emcee starts to welcome everyone to the event. you sit patiently, trying not to bounce your knee when the epitome of grace is right beside you. the first few acts pass by without much enthusiasm. you shuffle in your seat.

and then wonwoo comes up. there's polite applause as he scans the darkened crowd. he pauses in your direction, and smiles. you turn to his sister(?). she spares you an undecipherable look.

"hello," he says into the microphone. "i'm wonwoo, and up till recently i was sceptical towards the fine art of slam poetry."

you snort.

he continues, "but i've been converted, maybe, to see the beauty of paying tribute to the ancient origins of poetry. i'm not a poet, but shakespeare is, and he's pretty ancient as far as i know.

"so here's sonnet 130."

#seventeen #seventeen imagines #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo scenarios

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thenewbrotherhood · 7 years

Text

Sandwich Accords

(Upstairs) Murhder Shoveling one of the sandwiches into his mouth on the way up the stairs, he was even more pissed off that his current anger didn't allow him the pleasure of even tasting it on its way down. The thing could have been cardboard for all of its lack of culinary opulence. It was the premise of the thing now, and he was going to eat the damn sandwiches if it killed him...which it might if he didn't get the bottle of whiskey opened fast enough to wash it down. Reaching the room, still chewing like a squirrel with full cheeks, he kicked open the door with a grunt and closed himself inside with yet another kick. Sitting the other sandwich down on a nearby bedside table, he quickly yanked the bottle from under his arm, twisted the cap off with a spin and guzzled down half the bottle before stopping for a breath. The burn was nice and so was the buzz so he reached for the second sandwich without hesitation. Downing it just as quickly as the first, he finished off the bottle and slung it across the bed to land in the corner. Finally taking the time to look around, it was painfully obvious that this was no longer the room he shared with Prudence but a full out female, princess, frilly fuck you to manliness room of all rooms. And then it dawned on him just what it was she had been burning in the fire that night that he had watched from the trees. His. Shit. He had suspected but this was proof. Moving to the dresser just to confirm, he pulled out each drawer like a mad man, flinging item after item over his head in search of what he knew he would not find. His clothing, along with books, papers and mementos were all gone. Doing the same to the huge closet, he growled loudly as he ripped down the hanging items and carefully stored pillows, files and general female crap. Without stopping, he grabbed up a huge arm of Prudence's clothes and marched, if not a little wonky due to the whiskey, to the door and to the railing of the balcony. With a war cry that would shake the house, he hefted them up and over the rails and watched as the material scattered in a pile below. Satisfied that it had made a large enough mess, he repeated the process again and again with anything he could find that belonged to the "chosen". His rage had consumed him so fiercely and the whiskey had loosened his grip on reality so easily that he didn't even notice the tingle in his brain that signified that he might in fact be losing control of one beast and letting loose another. Prudence Prudence shook her head in answer to both fighters. “I wish I could Z, truly… but he seems to be hanging on for now and they are all still here except for Lassiter. The angel took off for some reason. I’m pretty sure he did something to stick his nose in it, but let’s hope it was to help things out and not…” Before she could finish her sentence a great roaring cry echoed throughout the basement. Prudence hung her head briefly and took a deep breath. She recognized Murhder’s voice and assumed that his young nephew had passed unto the Fade. “Well, that’s it then.” Holding up her hands to stop the three from charging up the stairs, she stepped closer to Throe. “Wait. Wait… I know this is hard, but please, all of you, stay down here a bit longer. Coming up will only make everything so much worse. They’ve all just lost someone dear to them and emotions are going to be running high. Let’s just get through today and we can see the last of them at sunset.” It was clear to see that her request didn’t sit well with any of them, and she could only hope that they would honor it. Rarely did she make any requests of them. Before any objections could be voiced, Prudence leaned up and placed a quick kiss to Throe’s cheek. Then turning from him, she reached out and gave Zypher’s arm a slight squeeze before heading to the steps leading upwards. It wasn’t until she was nearing the top and didn’t hear any footsteps following behind her, that she relaxed the tense hold of her shoulders. Maybe they would all come through this night alright after all. Just as she exited the kitchen on her way back to the den, she caught sight of something moving past her out of the corner of her eye. Jumping a little in surprise, it took a moment for her already stressed brain to make sense of what she was seeing. The entry way and space below the staircase was littered with items of clothing and other personal items, even as more rained down from the floor above. Looking up, she saw Murhder dump over another handful of what appeared to some of her belongings. “What are you DOING?!” It was no great surprise when he didn’t answer her question or that he just ignored her all together and turned back down the hallway. Shock and anger propelled her up the stairs at a dead run. Chasing after the sounds of destruction, she halted at the door to her bedroom and just looked in opened mouth surprise at the disaster left within. “Murhder, those are MY THINGS!” Murhder Hearing her approach, even over the sound of her things hitting the floor, he smirked smugly and ignored her shocked and awed question. Heading back down the hall and into the room, he turned when she entered and snarled in her direction, showing an ample amount of fang. "Exactly, get them the hell out of my room!" Grabbing up the last drawer full, he pressed passed her and down the short distance to the balcony and dumped it with a shake. He watched as a few blouses fluttered down atop the pretty significant pile. Turning to address her just one more time as she watched her clothes depart the upper area, he bent nose to nose with her and hissed as he spoke, unknowingly giving away the secret that he had been watching her. "At least they're not on FIRE!" The last word was practically spit in her direction before he pressed passed her once more. What he did not realize was that the action caused a folded, quickly scribbled note to fall from his back pocket and land squarely in the middle of the runner rug that led to the now vacant, not vacant room. Slamming the door behind him, he locked it with as much force as he could muster without breaking the mechanism and fell backwards onto the bed spread eagle. Prudence “At least they’re not on FIRE!” The vitriol hissed into her face with Murhder’s last statement hit Prudence like an actual blow and caused her to stumble a couple steps backwards from his bulking form. Hearing the door lock being slammed into place and the groan of the bed being similarly abused fueled her anger and helped her re-gained her footing. Snarling now herself, she snatched up the paper he’d dropped, smashed it angrily into a ball and threw it at the barred door with so much force that it immediately bounced back and hit her square in the chest. Standing with her chest heaving and heart pounding, Prudence blinked back tears of rage and grabbed the ineffective paper ball from the ground at her feet. She’d just been evicted lock stock and barrel from her OWN room by the very same person who’d let her be taken from her OWN house and she knew that there wasn’t anything…short of starting a war… that she could do about it now. The daylight hours held them all prisoner and as angry as she was, people dying for the massive hit to her dignity wasn’t something she could live with. Forcing herself to turn away from the bedroom, she un-messed the stupid paper ball with the intention of shredding the damn thing; then froze completely when she recognized her own name written in a scrawled hand. Her shocked intake of breath actually burned her lungs. She knew that hand… had spent time learning to decipher it over the years whenever she’d been left a note for supplies, or food, or just some random demand. It was Murhder’s writing…well, not quite Murhder’s, but that belonging to the other consciousness that sometimes shared his soul. Glancing at the closed bedroom door, she hurried away, least he open the door and catch her with the scribbled note. Only making it to the top of the staircase before her shaking legs forced her to sit, she smoothed out the note paper and she read what the Monster had written for her: {{“Prudence…If you get this it will be a fucking miracle but this is my last chance before the moron I share a body with does something to get rid of me for good. I don’t know if thats an idiotic thing or a mad genius at work but…time will tell I guess. I cant believe Im defending him or if it was my influence, but you need to know that you haven’t been alone. Our boy has been watching you from the shadows since he dumped you off with that inglorious band of filthy bastards. We watched you move with them from place to place, watched you as you took care of them and even guarded you in the market when you would make a supply run for your new boys. Its taken me a while to trust them but I see now that Murhder #1 knew what he was doing when he placed them in your care. Damn him and his bouts of sanity. Now Im asking you for one more favor. Shit!.....BRB……”}} The note ended abruptly there, except for some markings written in the old language that Prudence didn’t understand. There was no mistaking, however, the five exclamation marks after those written words…they’d been made with such emphasis they’d torn through the paper. “Oh my God” After quickly reading the rushed note a second time, Prudence carefully folded it and stuck it down inside her bra for safe keeping. Whatever his need was at its end, she couldn’t let Murhder know that his other half had been “awake” enough to pen her a message. Monster had already said M was trying to get rid of him forever, if he knew how close to the surface his other self had gotten, there was no telling what that might cause him to do. The heat from her anger had completely faded, leaving in its wake a chill that cut to her bones. With shaking hands Prudence brushed the hair back from her face and tried to calm the storm inside her mind with slow deep breaths. So, she’d been right when she’d guessed that her abduction by Throe had been allowed because of Murhder reclaiming complete hold over himself, it was the only thing that had ever seem to make sense. But to learn he’d been following her the whole time! Now that was totally a surprise. Prudence had believed all this time that M’s abandonment had meant he’d cared nothing at all for her…maybe that hadn’t been quite the whole truth. Suddenly his hissed words and the dumping of her things made sense. He must have paid witnessed her break down and bonfire. “Jesus…” What a fucking mess she’d made of everything. Using the banister to pull herself up, Prudence leaned on it for added support as she descended the stairs. She wasn’t sure at all what to do next about any of this, but for now she’d better hide the evidence of Murhder’s tantrum before Throe or one of the others decided to come and check out all the shouting. More fighting was certainly NOT what any of them needed and about all that she could hope to manage. August 8, 2017

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