The day Ansel Wright returned to the country, I was huddled beside a trash can at the intersection of Wall Street, eating scraps that I had scavenged to fill my stomach.My legs had been cut off, and I could only prop up my body with my hands. I was disheveled and in rags, and I looked no different from a beggar. As I looked up at the huge advertising screen at the intersection, I saw that Ansel was being interviewed with his fiancée, Anne Nelson. Over the past two years, Ansel had become a rising star named in Forbes' Rankings. The air-conditioning in the interview room seemed to be too cold, as Ansel took off his jacket and draped it over Anne. He did it in a familiar manner, and there was a tender, gentle look in his eyes.My eyes turned red abruptly, and a lump rose in my throat as tears rolled down my cheeks. I had always loved wearing dresses. Even on snowy winter days when the temperature was below freezing, I would wear dresses that exposed my bare legs. During those
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