“Have you ever kissed a guy before?” She rolled the tissue into a ball in her lap and stared at it. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. His relation of the murder of Sir Rowland petrified even his fierce auditors. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked.
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