" "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. He arrived at 6:29 sharp on the night of the Junior Prom. Drawing his hanger he rode amongst the crowd, trampled upon those most in advance, and made an attempt to seize their leader, in whom he recognised Blueskin.
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