Old hunters and travellers say that they would rather steal the child of a native savage than to take one of the sokos.
She lives in New Bedford, and her dad's not around much and her mum calls her boyfriend a Portagee, a fuckin' greenhorn, and she says, Ma, he's 3rd generation, but her mum just rolls her eyes and fixes a drink, fills her glass with ice from the icemaker they have, pours some bourbon from the bottle on the glass-and-mirror shelf above the sink, turns on one of the gold seahorse faucets just a swoosh, and goes into the living room with the paper.
some who posit both this cause and besides this the source of movement, which we have got from some as single and from other as twofold.
Be warned, this is gonna be anything but pure comfortfic or mushfic. Or pure angstfic, for that matter.
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