Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. For a long time he stared at the empty doorway. Then he turned on his heel and walked off. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. “Have to go now. “In all fairness,” she thought to herself as she coaxed his mouth toward her left nipple. Sheppard, horror-stricken. ‘Ah, no,’ Gerald uttered at once, lowering his voice and infusing it with all the promise he could command.
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