The Song of the Lark [NOOK Book]

Overview

A novelist and short-story writer, Willa Cather is today widely regarded as one of the foremost American authors of the twentieth century. Particularly renowned for the memorable women she created for such works as My Antonia and O Pioneers!, she pens the portrait of another formidable character in The Song of the Lark. This, her third novel, traces the struggle of the woman as artist in an era when a woman's role was far more rigidly defined than it is today. The prototype for the main character as a child and ...
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The Song of the Lark

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Overview

A novelist and short-story writer, Willa Cather is today widely regarded as one of the foremost American authors of the twentieth century. Particularly renowned for the memorable women she created for such works as My Antonia and O Pioneers!, she pens the portrait of another formidable character in The Song of the Lark. This, her third novel, traces the struggle of the woman as artist in an era when a woman's role was far more rigidly defined than it is today. The prototype for the main character as a child and adolescent was Cather herself, while a leading Wagnerian soprano at the Metropolitan Opera (Olive Fremstad) became the model for Thea Kronborg, the singer who defies the limitations placed on women of her time and social station to become an international opera star. A coming-of-age-novel, important for the issues of gender and class that it explores, The Song of the Lark is one of Cather's most popular and lyrical works.

In the Cather tradition, a memorable heroine emerges as a woman of strength and hope who works to build a life that affirms her unflagging spirit.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Cather’s semiautobiographical bildungsroman about the evolution of an artist revolves around young Thea Kronborg, who leaves smalltown Colorado for Chicago in order to realize her dream of becoming a trained pianist and piano teacher. But her tutor, Mr. Harsanyi, soon discovers Thea’s talent for singing and persuades her to pursue that path. Along the way, Thea is championed and romanced by Fred Ottenburg, the rich heir of a beer magnate. Christine Williams is an able reader: her narration is clear and clean, though a little dull. More problematic is Williams’s rendition of Thea, which feels flat. Additionally, the narrator’s speech becomes breathy during emotional moments (e.g., a kiss)—a tic that affects every character, even the males. As such, it is often difficult to distinguish vocally between Thea and her beau, Fred. (Feb.)
Choice

"Embellished with handsome photographs and presented in an easy-to-read format, this is a necessary edition for any scholar of Cather."—N. Birns, Choice

— N. Birns

Choice - N. Birns

"This authoritative edition of Cather's perhaps least understood novel is a welcome addition to the Willa Cather Scholarly Edition, begun under the general editorship of Susan Rosowski and now under that of Guy Reynolds. The Song of the Lark is important for taking the portraits of European immigrants in the US in O Pioneers! and adding the element of art as it traces the evolution of Thea Kronborg from small-town girl to opera singer acclaimed in Chicago, New York, and Europe. . . . Embellished with handsome photographs and presented in an easy-to-read format, this is a necessary edition for any scholar of Cather."—N. Birns, Choice

Great Plains Quarterly - Debra Cumberland

"Cather fans will be captivated by the store Moseley unravels behind the work's composition, as well as the intellectual and geographical influences underpinning it."—Debra Cumberland, Great Plains Quarterly
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780803249806
  • Publisher: UNP - Bison Books
  • Publication date: 6/1/2013
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 550
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author

A Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Willa Cather’s work was profoundly influenced by her upbringing in rural Nebraska. During her young adulthood Cather proved herself intelligent and capable, initially training for a career as a medical doctor, but discovered a love of, and talent for, writing while attending the University of Nebraska. Following graduation, Cather worked as a journalist for several women’s magazines before becoming a high school teacher; an opportunity work as an editor at McClure’s provided Cather with her first chance to publish as the magazine serialized her first novel, Alexander’s Bridge, to critical acclaim. This was soon followed by works that have since become best-loved American classics, including My Àntonia, The Song of the Lark, and her Pulitzer-Prize winner, One of Ours. Cather died in 1947 at the age of 73.

Biography

Wilella Sibert Cather was born on December 7, 1873, in the small Virginia farming community of Winchester. When she was ten years old, her parents moved the family to the prairies of Nebraska, where her father opened a farm mortgage and insurance business. Home-schooled before enrolling in the local high school, Cather had a mind of her own, changing her given name to Willa and adopting a variation of her grandmother's maiden name, Seibert, as her middle name.

During Cather's studies at the University of Nebraska, she worked as a drama critic to support herself and published her first piece of short fiction, "Peter," in a Boston magazine. After graduation, her love of music and intellectual pursuits inspired her to move to Pittsburgh, where she edited the family magazine Home Monthly, wrote theater criticism for the Pittsburgh Daily Leader, and taught English and Latin in local high schools. Cather's big break came with the publication of her first short story collection, The Troll Garden (1905). The following year she moved to New York City to work for McClure's Magazine as a writer and eventually the magazine's managing editor.

Considered one of the great figures of early-twentieth-century American literature, Willa Cather derived much of her inspiration from the American Midwest, which she considered her home. Never married, she cherished her many friendships, some of which she had maintained since childhood. Her intimate coterie of women writers and artists motivated Cather to produce some of her best work. Sarah Orne Jewett, a successful author from Maine whom Cather had met during her McClure's years, inspired her to devote herself full-time to creating literature and to write about her childhood, which she did in several novels of the prairies. She was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1923 for her novel about World War I, called One of Ours.

She won many other awards, including a gold medal from the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the Prix Femina Americaine. On April 24, 1947, two years after publishing her last novel, Willa Cather died in New York City of a cerebral hemorrhage. Among Cather's other accomplishments were honorary doctorate degrees from Columbia, Princeton, and Yale Universities.

Author biography from the Barnes & Noble Classics edition of O, Pioneers!.

Good To Know

When Cather first arrived at the University of Nebraska, she dressed as William Cather, her opposite sex twin.

Cather was the first woman voted into the Nebraska Hall of Fame, in 1961.

She spent forty years of her life with her companion, Edith Lewis, in New York City.

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    1. Also Known As:
      Wilella Sibert Cather (full name)
    1. Date of Birth:
      December 7, 1873
    2. Place of Birth:
      Winchester, Virginia
    1. Date of Death:
      April 27, 1947
    2. Place of Death:
      New York, New York

Read an Excerpt

The Song of the lark


By WILLA CATHER, JOSLYN T. PINE

Dover Publications, Inc.

Copyright © 2004 Dover Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-486-11448-4



CHAPTER 1

DR. HOWARD ARCHIE had just come up from a game of pool with the Jewish clothier and two traveling men who happened to be staying overnight in Moonstone. His offices were in the Duke Block, over the drug store. Larry, the doctor's man, had lit the overhead light in the waiting-room and the double student's lamp on the desk in the study. The isinglass sides of the hard-coal burner were aglow, and the air in the study was so hot that as he came in the doctor opened the door into his little operating-room, where there was no stove. The waiting-room was carpeted and stiffly furnished, something like a country parlor. The study had worn, unpainted floors, but there was a look of winter comfort about it. The doctor's flat-top desk was large and well made; the papers were in orderly piles, under glass weights. Behind the stove a wide bookcase, with double glass doors, reached from the floor to the ceiling. It was filled with medical books of every thickness and color. On the top shelf stood a long row of thirty or forty volumes, bound all alike in dark mottled board covers, with imitation leather backs.

As the doctor in New England villages is proverbially old, so the doctor in small Colorado towns twenty-five years ago was generally young. Dr. Archie was barely thirty. He was tall, with massive shoulders which he held stiffly, and a large, well-shaped head. He was a distinguished-looking man, for that part of the world, at least. There was something individual in the way in which his reddish-brown hair, parted cleanly at the side, bushed over his high forehead. His nose was straight and thick, and his eyes were intelligent. He wore a curly, reddish mustache and an imperial, cut trimly, which made him look a little like the pictures of Napoleon III. His hands were large and well kept, but ruggedly formed, and the backs were shaded with crinkly reddish hair. He wore a blue suit of woolly, widewaled serge; the traveling men had known at a glance that it was made by a Denver tailor. The doctor was always well dressed.

Dr. Archie turned up the student's lamp and sat down in the swivel chair before his desk. He sat uneasily, beating a tattoo on his knees with his fingers, and looked about him as if he were bored. He glanced at his watch, then absently took from his pocket a bunch of small keys, selected one and looked at it. A contemptuous smile, barely perceptible, played on his lips, but his eyes remained meditative. Behind the door that led into the hall, under his buffalo-skin driving-coat, was a locked cupboard. This the doctor opened mechanically, kicking aside a pile of muddy overshoes. Inside, on the shelves, were whiskey glasses and decanters, lemons, sugar, and bitters. Hearing a step in the empty, echoing hall without, the doctor closed the cupboard again, snapping the Yale lock. The door of the waiting-room opened, a man entered and came on into the consulting-room.

"Good-evening, Mr. Kronborg," said the doctor carelessly. "Sit down."

His visitor was a tall, loosely built man, with a thin brown beard, streaked with gray. He wore a frock coat, a broad-brimmed black hat, a white lawn necktie, and steel-rimmed spectacles. Altogether there was a pretentious and important air about him, as he lifted the skirts of his coat and sat down.

"Good-evening, doctor. Can you step around to the house with me? I think Mrs. Kronborg will need you this evening." This was said with profound gravity and, curiously enough, with a slight embarrassment.

"Any hurry?" the doctor asked over his shoulder as he went into his operating-room.

Mr. Kronborg coughed behind his hand, and contracted his brows. His face threatened at every moment to break into a smile of foolish excitement. He controlled it only by calling upon his habitual pulpit manner. "Well, I think it would be as well to go immediately. Mrs. Kronborg will be more comfortable if you are there. She has been suffering for some time."

The doctor came back and threw a black bag upon his desk. He wrote some instructions for his man on a prescription pad and then drew on his overcoat. "All ready," he announced, putting out his lamp. Mr. Kronborg rose and they tramped through the empty hall and down the stairway to the street. The drug store below was dark, and the saloon next door was just closing. Every other light on Main Street was out.

On either side of the road and at the outer edge of the board sidewalk, the snow had been shoveled into breastworks. The town looked small and black, flattened down in the snow, muffled and all but extinguished. Overhead the stars shone gloriously. It was impossible not to notice them. The air was so clear that the white sand hills to the east of Moonstone gleamed softly. Following the Reverend Mr. Kronborg along the narrow walk, past the little dark, sleeping houses, the doctor looked up at the flashing night and whistled softly. It did seem that people were stupider than they need be; as if on a night like this there ought to be something better to do than to sleep nine hours, or to assist Mrs. Kronborg in functions which she could have performed so admirably unaided. He wished he had gone down to Denver to hear Fay Templeton sing "See-Saw." Then he remembered that he had a personal interest in this family, after all. They turned into another street and saw before them lighted windows; a low story-and-a-half house, with a wing built on at the right and a kitchen addition at the back, everything a little on the slant—roofs, windows, and doors. As they approached the gate, Peter Kronborg's pace grew brisker. His nervous, ministerial cough annoyed the doctor. "Exactly as if he were going to give out a text," he thought. He drew off his glove and felt in his vest pocket. "Have a troche, Kronborg," he said, producing some. "Sent me for samples. Very good for a rough throat."

"Ah, thank you, thank you. I was in something of a hurry. I neglected to put on my overshoes. Here we are, doctor." Kronborg opened his front door—seemed delighted to be at home again.

The front hall was dark and cold; the hat rack was hung with an astonishing number of children's hats and caps and cloaks. They were even piled on the table beneath the hat rack. Under the table was a heap of rubbers and overshoes. While the doctor hung up his coat and hat, Peter Kronborg opened the door into the living-room. A glare of light greeted them, and a rush of hot, stale air, smelling of warming flannels.


At three o'clock in the morning Dr. Archie was in the parlor putting on his cuffs and coat—there was no spare bedroom in that house. Peter Kronborg's seventh child, a boy, was being soothed and cosseted by his aunt, Mrs. Kronborg was asleep, and the doctor was going home. But he wanted first to speak to Kronborg, who, coatless and fluttery, was pouring coal into the kitchen stove. As the doctor crossed the dining-room he paused and listened. From one of the wing rooms, off to the left, he heard rapid, distressed breathing. He went to the kitchen door.

"One of the children sick in there?" he asked, nodding toward the partition.

Kronborg hung up the stove-lifter and dusted his fingers. "It must be Thea. I meant to ask you to look at her. She has a croupy cold. But in my excitement—Mrs. Kronborg is doing finely, eh, doctor? Not many of your patients with such a constitution, I expect."

"Oh, yes. She's a fine mother." The doctor took up the lamp from the kitchen table and unceremoniously went into the wing room. Two chubby little boys were asleep in a double bed, with the coverlids over their noses and their feet drawn up. In a single bed, next to theirs, lay a little girl of eleven, wide awake, two yellow braids sticking up on the pillow behind her. Her face was scarlet and her eyes were blazing.

The doctor shut the door behind him. "Feel pretty sick, Thea?" he asked as he took out his thermometer. "Why didn't you call somebody?"

She looked at him with greedy affection. "I thought you were here," she spoke between quick breaths. "There is a new baby, isn't there? Which?"

"Which?" repeated the doctor.

"Brother or sister?"

He smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Brother," he said, taking her hand.

"Open."

"Good. Brothers are better," she murmured as he put the glass tube under her tongue.

"Now, be still, I want to count." Dr. Archie reached for her hand and took out his watch. When he put her hand back under the quilt he went over to one of the windows—they were both tight shut—and lifted it a little way. He reached up and ran his hand along the cold, unpapered wall. "Keep under the covers; I'll come back to you in a moment," he said, bending over the glass lamp with his thermometer. He winked at her from the door before he shut it.

Peter Kronborg was sitting in his wife's room, holding the bundle which contained his son. His air of cheerful importance, his beard and glasses, even his shirt-sleeves, annoyed the doctor. He beckoned Kronborg into the living-room and said sternly:—

"You've got a very sick child in there. Why didn't you call me before? It's pneumonia, and she must have been sick for several days. Put the baby down somewhere, please, and help me make up the bed-lounge here in the parlor. She's got to be in a warm room, and she's got to be quiet. You must keep the other children out. Here, this thing opens up, I see," swinging back the top of the carpet lounge. "We can lift her mattress and carry her in just as she is. I don't want to disturb her more than is necessary."

Kronborg was all concern immediately. The two men took up the mattress and carried the sick child into the parlor. "I'll have to go down to my office to get some medicine, Kronborg. The drug store won't be open. Keep the covers on her. I won't be gone long. Shake down the stove and put on a little coal, but not too much; so it'll catch quickly, I mean. Find an old sheet for me, and put it there to warm."

The doctor caught his coat and hurried out into the dark street. Nobody was stirring yet, and the cold was bitter. He was tired and hungry and in no mild humor. "The idea!" he muttered; "to be such an ass at his age, about the seventh! And to feel no responsibility about the little girl. Silly old goat! The baby would have got into the world somehow; they always do. But a nice little girl like that—she's worth the whole litter. Where she ever got it from—" He turned into the Duke Block and ran up the stairs to his office.

Thea Kronborg, meanwhile, was wondering why she happened to be in the parlor, where nobody but company—usually visiting preachers—ever slept. She had moments of stupor when she did not see anything, and moments of excitement when she felt that something unusual and pleasant was about to happen, when she saw everything clearly in the red light from the isinglass sides of the hard-coal burner—the nickel trimmings on the stove itself, the pictures on the wall, which she thought very beautiful, the flowers on the Brussels carpet, Czerny's "Daily Studies" which stood open on the upright piano. She forgot, for the time being, all about the new baby.

When she heard the front door open, it occurred to her that the pleasant thing which was going to happen was Dr. Archie himself. He came in and warmed his hands at the stove. As he turned to her, she threw herself wearily toward him, half out of her bed. She would have tumbled to the floor had he not caught her. He gave her some medicine and went to the kitchen for something he needed. She drowsed and lost the sense of his being there. When she opened her eyes again, he was kneeling before the stove, spreading something dark and sticky on a white cloth, with a big spoon; batter, perhaps. Presently she felt him taking off her nightgown. He wrapped the hot plaster about her chest. There seemed to be straps which he pinned over her shoulders. Then he took out a thread and needle and began to sew her up in it. That, she felt, was too strange; she must be dreaming anyhow, so she succumbed to her drowsiness.

Thea had been moaning with every breath since the doctor came back, but she did not know it. She did not realize that she was suffering pain. When she was conscious at all, she seemed to be separated from her body; to be perched on top of the piano, or on the hanging lamp, watching the doctor sew her up. It was perplexing and unsatisfactory, like dreaming. She wished she could waken up and see what was going on.

The doctor thanked God that he had persuaded Peter Kronborg to keep out of the way. He could do better by the child if he had her to himself. He had no children of his own. His marriage was a very unhappy one. As he lifted and undressed Thea, he thought to himself what a beautiful thing a little girl's body was,—like a flower. It was so neatly and delicately fashioned, so soft, and so milky white. Thea must have got her hair and her silky skin from her mother. She was a little Swede, through and through. Dr. Archie could not help thinking how he would cherish a little creature like this if she were his. Her hands, so little and hot, so clever, too,—he glanced at the open exercise book on the piano. When he had stitched up the flaxseed jacket, he wiped it neatly about the edges, where the paste had worked out on the skin. He put on her the clean nightgown he had warmed before the fire, and tucked the blankets about her. As he pushed back the hair that had fuzzed down over her eyebrows, he felt her head thoughtfully with the tips of his fingers. No, he couldn't say that it was different from any other child's head, though he believed that there was something very different about her. He looked intently at her wide, flushed face, freckled nose, fierce little mouth, and her delicate, tender chin—the one soft touch in her hard little Scandinavian face, as if some fairy godmother had caressed her there and left a cryptic promise. Her brows were usually drawn together defiantly, but never when she was with Dr. Archie. Her affection for him was prettier than most of the things that went to make up the doctor's life in Moonstone.

The windows grew gray. He heard a tramping on the attic floor, on the back stairs, then cries: "Give me my shirt!" "Where's my other stocking?"

"I'll have to stay till they get off to school," he reflected, "or they'll be in here tormenting her, the whole lot of them."


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Song of the lark by WILLA CATHER, JOSLYN T. PINE. Copyright © 2004 Dover Publications, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Part I. Friends of Childhood 1
Part II. The Song of the Lark 105
Part III. Stupid Faces 161
Part IV. The Ancient People 189
Part V. Doctor Archie's Venture 221
Part VI. Kronborg 245
Epilogue 309
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 62 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(33)

4 Star

(13)

3 Star

(6)

2 Star

(5)

1 Star

(5)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 65 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 11, 2012

    Poor Quality

    There are so many typos in this copy that I couldn't get past the first 3 pages. This should be an excellent book. Whoever did the copy of this book should be fired.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 24, 2010

    Average Read

    The book was good but not my favorite. The book is slow. While the illustration on the front cover is nice, I don't see how it fit the book. I spent lots of time trying to figure out how it related to the book.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 16, 2004

    An Unusual Lark

    Willa Cather paints us a picture of a very unusual girl. From the first we see that Thea is a little different from others just as Willa was a little different from contemporaries of her sex. Other characters in the novel can see that Thea is gifted, often distant as dreamers often are and destined for greater things than most. As I was reading the book I tried to focus on just what made her different. I appreciate Willa's imagery. The sandhills, Chicago, and the cliff dwellings in Arizona stand out like paintings in the Novel. Willa Cather certainly deserves high praise for the works she has left us.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 2, 2002

    read this book

    'Nothing is far and nothing is near, if one desires. The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing- desire.' This is only one of the many poetic lines in this excellent novel by Willa Cather. The book is a tale of a young girl, Thea Kronborg, that has many experiences on her journey to following her dream of becoming a successful opera singer. The character actually represents Cather and her struggles to achieve artistic recognition. Throughout the book I felt compelled to relate myself to Thea's experiences. I believe this book is not only the story of a person's desire taking them out of the little town they grew up in, but it creates a new world for the reader to explore in. The minor characters in the novel add on to the intensity and love Thea has for singing. As she grows up and learns what it takes to make it big, the reader can not help but grow attached to the distinct setting and characters. I would recommend this book to anyone who feels passionate about a certain talent they have. The Song Of The Lark teaches you that it is possible to achieve your dream.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 31, 2002

    Great for Singers

    Willa Cather's The Song of the Lark is a highly decorative novel that provides a detailed account on the growth of a young girl, Thea Kronborg, who has an exceptional talent in singing. The book goes over Thea¿s modest upbringing to her career as an opera singer with an in-depth look at her maturity as she refines her talent. However, the book seems to focus more on Thea¿s surroundings than on Thea herself. There are lengthy descriptions of the landscapes and the important people in her life, but you never truly get to know Thea. Therefore, you often get a picture of what Thea is like through her interactions with other people and the affect that she has on friends, such as Dr. Archie and Fred Ottenburg. During the novel, I expected something huge and horrible to happen to Thea, but I found out that the novel isn¿t much of a roller coaster ride in terms of life-changing events. Though it wasn¿t action-packed, the novel was satisfying because of Cather¿s literary genius. From the beginning, it is already confirmed that Thea is uncommon, a theme that is constantly emphasized throughout the novel. Yet, the beauty of this book is that it describes Thea¿s musical gift in such a way that it allows you to experience her uniqueness: by imagining the tone and richness of her voice. The description leaves it open to interpretation so that you can be swept away by her strong personality even though you haven¿t really met her. The vast descriptions of the Midwest landscape is so captivating that it makes you cherish it on the same level that Thea does. Overall, this book appealed to me because I love to sing. I felt a personal connection to Thea because I wanted to be like her. I would definitely recommend it to those who are interested in opera or singing because it¿s one of the few novels out there that includes such a deep text in singing and opera.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 8, 2014

    Skylar

    "You shouldn't have read that," she frowns, biting her lip.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 17, 2014

    Harry

    :c Unsatisfactoryyyy. *he threw his arms up around her and pinned her to his chest, kissing her nose, chin, and mouth with giggles of delight.*

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Treble the Second

    River is Eleven's wife.... you haven't seen the Smith era yet?!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Myrracle

    She covers her eyes and bows. "I must go. Good bye."

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Treble

    ((Same here. Baiiiii~))

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Myrracle

    With her congratulations done, she stepped aside so thers can have their turns.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Cloud

    Watched, barely able to contain herself. [B

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Chord

    I'm goung to bed...

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 23, 2014

    Harry

    "Oh, I don't think so," he growled quietly, smirking as he hauled her upright and pinned her back against the tree, sneaking his lips to her neck and kissing her softly all over her throat.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Hush

    *she grins at Chord, eyes sparkling with tears already.*

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Theta

    ((Nuuuuu!!! Bai Lyne D:))

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Lyne

    She grinned. Caedence beamed, babbling happily and asking for Ava. ((Gtgtb. Meh. Bbt.))

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Lyne

    "Good." She laughed, letting go. "I'm so happy for you."

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Lyne

    She stepped in line after Swag. :3

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2014

    Chord

    ((Sorry, I'm just waiting until everyone else gets here...))

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