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" Darrell's attention was drawn to the latter part of this speech by a slight pressure on his foot. “There is this absurd craving for Mr. They even talked about friendship. " "Your prisoner!" echoed Jonathan, derisively. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. This time they would call it murder. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. It was a brief solitude, however.
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