A person of somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her life perfectly natural. “I’ve gotta go. He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. “Want one?” Michelle deadpanned. —BRENDON.
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