Here it is. You know you do, Annabel. The van started with a jerk and rumbled on its way. She painted on the Root Beer Lip Smackers lip gloss that Shari had bought her last Christmas and rouged her cheeks as she had long ago as she once had for Sebastian. It isn’t illusions—for us. ‘Do not imagine that I will leave poor Jacques. You'll live to hate chicken; and the man in you will rise up and demand strong drink. He was all alone, too. We have so much to be thankful for.
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