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She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. You have taken my dagger. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. The bridge was open. “Really,” she said.
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