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She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune. Such an obvious ruse, but the boys and girls would defend their pride to the bitter end, the facade of study groups during rutting season. Michelle had warned her of the girl, calling her “Bitchster”. “I believe so. ‘I knew it. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. .
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