She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. You’re a piss-poor liar, John. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. "At all events, I've not done with you.
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