We must always move on. One or the other. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. "Do you submit?" interrogated Wild.
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