He disappeared after getting my foster sister Traci pregnant. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. Tight. “I’ve been thinking of you all night,” she answered. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark.
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