Hell, my mom hates everyone, don’t take this personally, but she doesn’t like you very much and she isn’t shy about letting me know. Before he could return, Jack had made good his retreat; and, wandering about the lanes and hedges, kept out of sight as much as possible. Barring that the Valade fellow had sneaked back. His feet would have the firm texture of his hands. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. ‘If you care for me at all, shoot me. They were so good to me.
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