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‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. ‘Always he is busy about my affairs. A pane of glass was shivered by each stone. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. " "They may find me.
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