Chamatilly's living room had a vaulted, no a cloistered ceiling, faux-Spanish Renaissance, with tiny, wanton, dizzying metallic tiles lining the walls up to the break-- its peak was not unlike an elaborate desert tent for some sheik.
She sat on a tooled leather pillow-mattress, hovering just centimeters above the rug.
"Kali goddess o' destruction really doesn't know what she's talking about. And did you hear her tell me to shut up? I don't have time for that."
Chamatilly's shoes were woven by imprisoned thieves so as to send money home to their families. They were what we might call "wicker" shoes that curl up priusnear comically at the toes.
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