‘Bête,’ she flung at him. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. It was locked. But I give you this warning, and let it sink in. As long as I live here, you stop fucking the children and you stop trying to fuck me. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers.
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