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I am 11 years old. I am walking up a rather wide elegant stairway with the girl that I refer to as Little Margret. Her hair is dark brown and loaded with luscious thick curls that hang down like sausages. Her hair is a little past shoulder length and is probably much longer when not curled. She is wearing the pink dress that I remember trying to paint in another memory.
The stairway is unfamiliar to me. The railing is dark wood. This may be her parents house. If it is her parents house, they have a bit of money. The gaudy wallpaper of the time was fairly expensive, or at least it looked expensive to me. The colors echo what I remember from the other memory of being at her home. Dusty rose, some red, and gold and dark colored wood furniture. The wallpaper that is rose colored has a pattern that is striped vertically with sections of white and some kind of flower pattern. It is extremely feminine. We are holding hands as we walk up the stairs. I have the feeling that I really adored this girl. I think that I would have continued to court her favour if I had not been ordered to stay away from her.
The stairway is large and opens to a top floor where there is a dark wood railing and it goes left and right. Standing atop the stairs, we can see out to the floor below which is the front parlor room, which is amazingly large. Much larger than the one in my parents home. I can see the front door. I also have a strong sense that this was also the room where I had been punished by my father in front of Little Margret and her father. Of course, that was in the future from this memory.
She smiles at me and takes me again by the hand since I had put my hands into my pockets upon reaching the stairway top. I follow her down the hallway, which would have been to the right side. I see a series of doors in the hallway, but only one is open and there is light pouring from that room. It is at the end of the hallway. It is her bedroom door. We walk in.
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