“Perhaps one talks nonsense about a woman’s instinct,” she said. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. “And for me it has been Pride and Pride and Pride! “I am the prodigal daughter.
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