Goodbye. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. Of course I knew all about him years ago, and he is exactly like everybody’s description of him. "He can't get out. ‘At me,’ she uttered, holding her own pistol high and aiming it steadily. Kneebone.
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