Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. A pig, yes, a little. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. An ordinary type, of course—” Mrs. “Have you turned him yet?” Michelle whispered hotly, trying not to raise the volume of her voice. ’ She turned, her eyes narrowed. “We’re in for it. She leaned back in her chair.
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