She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. She still kicked herself for it. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. But it looked as if the boy was not going to be of much use. Also she made little pussy-like sounds of a reassuring nature. “I’m going to kill your weakness for you.
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