She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. The Bitchster strikes again. I would be too 222 busy protecting you. Good heavens! She was discussing love-making. “You’re wanted for questioning, miss.
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