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I came running at the screeches from the nursery. The room was a mess -- wooden soliders and blocks underfoot, overturned chairs, a water pitcher shattered on the floor-- and the midst of this chaos, Boromir flat on his stomach, Faramir sitting on his shoulders, pummeling his brother with small fists, yelling, "Do you yield?" "Faramir son of Denethor!" I shouted, disbelieving. They both turned toward me, startled, but Faramir showed no inclination to move. "What is going on here?" I demanded. They exchanged puzzled glances. "Nothing," Boromir said as he sat up. "We're just playing," Faramir agreed. Not for the first time, I wondered how much simpler my life would be if the Steward had had girls. |
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