"I'm— I'm sorry, sir," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper, like a pathetic sound. My head was still bowed, my gaze fixed on the shattered pieces of porcelain on the floor, not daring to look him in the face. Shame, hot and bitter, burned in my cheeks. But what he said next, the cold, sharp edge of his words, made me snap my head up, my eyes wide with a fresh surge of terror, to stare at his face."I told you not to combine thinking with work, Lina. I never paid for that," he said, as his voice became low, with a dangerous rumble. I could feel his face harden, his jaw clenching, because he spoke through tightly closed teeth, each word clipped and precise. His eyes, that were dark and unreadable, bore into mine, stripping away any pretense of composure I might have had left. The implication was clear, my thoughts, my feelings, my very existence beyond his command, were an offense."I'm sorry, sir," I repeated again, the words tasting like ash in my mouth, a useless, automatic respons
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