I was born of one Suzanne Valade and an Englishman, Nicholas Charvill. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. . Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp. You know that. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. But come, sir.
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