Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. “We’ve made out but we haven’t had sex.
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