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March 10, 2006
"Yes, Marsha—it is I, Manfred," repeated Manfred, running his limbs over his moustache. "Or have you forgotten that you were once my betrothed, and I your betrothee?" Marsha's hand shot to her mouth, wounding her slightly. She gasped. "Oh, Wilbur—" "Manfred," he corrected her. "Manfred," she said. "No, I have never forgotten, although for short periods I become confused. Last year, from June until October, I believed that we had never been promised to each other, but that you were actually a large steam locomotive and I a simple tuft of grass. But I am better now, Manfred, I swear."