The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. "You shall never behold me alive. Like a river swollen by many currents, it gathered force from the various avenues that poured their streams into it. You have grown into my life, and I cannot tear you out. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it.
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