How many came? We’re taking census. A syndicate implies the body gone. Wagons and tricycles biked up to windows, trains for Meet the Press at dawn. What did those bandits at the massy door, Maginot!
Fffliedersehen! bicycles (agents never stop swarming) round the cold room, The beef? Plop! Cold door! Plop! Chickens hung on hooks, Quack-cluck!
packed, blame housewife who can’t remember roast under veil, loin on claw or in the fat self, veal. Yeah
here! Little Red Riding OOk
here.
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