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Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. Mr. . Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. The moral right of the author has been asserted. Of course this thing was absolutely impossible. ‘Perhaps I could indeed rescue you if only you would confide in me.
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