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We Spurlocks take our medicine, standing. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. "And now, widow," he continued, "attend to the next verse, for it consarns a friend o' yours. “I suppose, Mr.
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