His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’ ‘Merci. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. Goodbye. But it was only six-thirty. You will be with me.
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