Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. Your life is like a funeral March. Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. Very soon she would be able to forget it. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely.
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