In the morning the hands were busy, twisting the threads between tapering fingers. The cracked nails expertly avoided snagging the delicate threads, which spun themselves in and out of the warming light and last shadows, which still clung around the corners of the room. When at last the arms tired, unable to keep up with the fizzing delight of the fingers, the threads fell onto a lap swathed with bright wool, to slumber until the next rising sun.
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