” Mr. Winny, this is the last night I shall pass beneath your father's roof. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Plote was sleeping or deaf. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend.
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