She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. She had already realized that this instructress was hopelessly wrong and foggy—it is the test of the good comparative anatomist—upon the skull. When I realized that she was a liar and a mean bitch I broke it off with her for good. “Very well,” he said. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. The performance over, he relaxed and closed his eyes.
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