She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. Let’s face it, she hates Missy’s guts. Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. .
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