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Cinderella
When her stepmother entered through the cottage door bearing the news, Cinderella was sitting exactly where she always did. And that was in front of the blazing log fire, the ash and cinders dappling her deathly pale skin; naked as always, as clothes were a vanity wasted on one who never ventured beyond the kitchen hearth, the stack of logs and the coal scuttle. Cinderella's stepsisters, for whom no luxury was too great and no expense too excessive, were slumped in their armchairs: a red...