There is a girl in Paris. She has blonde hair, eyes of an mischievous blue that sparkle when she speaks, and a voice both resonant and pure, with crisp consonants and a slight lilt as her tongue caresses them; for she loves words. She speaks of surprising unsuspecting publishers with her trashy feminist novels, but what she means is that she
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You don't think you have a purity in spirit as it is right now?
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choo, lady slipper
when schools over we should have an evening with shanker
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