” She lied. Winter came at the manor. ’ ‘And me,’ came the guttural response, ‘I will certainly murder you the very next time I am compelled to see your face. She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. The ladder was now within reach. Without hindrance—present occupation.
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