But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede. Instead, her husband was probably wise. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened. “Want to see my fangs?” She asked. The months that followed September spiraled downward. Lucy looked at her reflection with a measure of awe. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain.
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