One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth. He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. Jack had no sooner taken his place in the cart, than he was followed by the ordinary, who seated himself beside him, and, opening the book of prayer, began to read aloud.
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