Wood resounded from below. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. “I want to be your friend,” he said. ‘Very well, mademoiselle, so be it,’ he snapped.
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