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The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. ’ The sword was released to slide back into its scabbard. “He’s got good taste, you know. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. The beach: to get there as quickly as he could, to reach the white man's nadir of abasement and gather the promise of that soothing indifference which comes with the final disintegration of the fibres of conscience.
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This video was uploaded to southmsnightout.com on 07-07-2024 22:40:21
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