” A fair-haired young Englishman looked up from the depths of his easy chair. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. ” Michelle sat in a yogi’s posture on the cold plywood, her eyes closed as if meditating. She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. “I do not wish to use this.
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