a story
2014-10-27 11:31:32,
2017-02-26 08:13:26
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      The same image danced about in the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Buford: oversized scissors slicing through a red ribbon before the newly christened Buford Automaton. They sat by the fireplace celebrating with bubbly wine imported from Monte-Diamont.

      “Congratulations, darling. We’ve done it,” Cordelia said with a radiant grin to her husband.

      “Now we begin our great work,” Lucas said, cheeks hurting from smiling too much, “Have you seen what they’re printing?”

      “Doll makers scaling up? I’ve seen the Gazette. Shortsighted fools.”

      They sipped their glasses and lost themselves in the fire.

      Delia looked over, paused a moment, and reached out her hand, “I’m so sorry we haven't been able to get pregnant.”

      “It’s okay,” he held her hand. “Dr. Bittersworth thinks it might be my fault, anyway.”

      “Well, we’re still going to have children, one way or another.”

      “They just have to be mechanical. All of course, dear.”

      “Precisely,” Delia affirmed.



      “I love you.”