This is the first act. She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. “Very well,” she would say, “then I must go. “Not like it’s your fault if you wake up one day and decide you hanker for a nice piece of ass, a ten-minute tumble. " The Wastrel rushed. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour.
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