Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. She took a shower after a particularly harsh volleyball debacle only to find that her locker had been picked and her outfit of the day, gray sweatpants and a shapeless pink sweater, were gone. Smith, now, being more than half-seas over, became very uproarious, and, claiming the attention of the table, volunteered the following DRINKING SONG. He had often read about it, and once he had incorporated it in a story, that invisible force which sent men to prison and to the gallows, when a tongue controlled would have meant liberty indefinite. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. After all, that was life. You have betrayed me.
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