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They stopped talking, except to each other. Once upon a time she and Roddy had descended thence by the drain-pipe. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. She felt the need to get dressed, sensing that his parents would be home soon. ‘Don’t dare address me by such a title. “Oh my God! You sounded like my Grandma just now! How did you do that?” He asked, shocked. They found out Cris had some sort of criminal past, more child abuse stuff of course.
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