She noticed right away that Sheila was a two-sided coin. Hill closed his eyes. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. “What?” He replied. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. My very sentences stumble and give way.
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