I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. "Now, Jack," cried Thames, warmly grasping Sheppard's hand, "you are my friend again. “She thinks that Missy is trying to turn me into a punk or a Goth. "Ah!" she screamed, seeing the uplifted weapon in Sheppard's hand, "don't hurt Thames—don't, dear Jack! If you want to kill somebody, kill me, not him. “You’d have to think how to get in between his bones. He returned to the car, Cokes in hand. "Hear me," he cried, restraining himself with difficulty. “Girl friends. Sepulchre's church. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me.
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