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Then it dawned. I have a weapon—a knife—and if you attempt to open the door, will plunge it to my heart. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. “Because I know for a fact that she was having sex with Gary Rothko during homecoming Freshman year and she let him pork her up the ass. Absolutely. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. He was human. “Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head.
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