My father died a year ago, by the way. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. ‘Pig, miss?’ ‘The one who calls himself Valade, idiot,’ snapped Melusine impatiently. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. Our heads swim with the thought of being together. He drew her closer.
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