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A morada do ser
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à meia luz encheu as taças. a mão enluvada esbarrou na sua, retraiu-se, deixou-se prender. baixou o som da vitrola. a mão branca acariciou-lhe o rosto, desceu procurando a nuca. a pena de pavão rouçou-lhe a face, brindaram.Contos / Ficção / Literatura Brasileira
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