Senior year started with a whimper. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. I’ve no name for it yet. Still, the respite was sufficient for Spurlock to look about for some weapon. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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This video was uploaded to southmsnightout.com on 29-06-2024 12:55:21
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