“The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. " "Poor Jack!" exclaimed Thames. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree.
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