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He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. ‘Don’t even think of it,’ warned Gerald, in the voice generally reserved for his men. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 27-09-2024 23:38:16