She changed her mind that day, as her mother Marina had predicted. “Very,” said Mr. . She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. He shuddered. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. And for me there is only one treasure-house.
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