And you’re as clean as fire. Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. Her normally shiny hair was 143 stringy and flat. . . The air was pungent and leaden. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened.
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