You asked the question, Sergeant. That you don't try and influence me, not really, you just report, tell me my choices, and let me go. The first shining tear trailed down his cheek. You asked what club I work for, I do not work at a club of any kind.
Maybe boyfriend isn't the right word, I said, and tried to think of an explanation that didn't include the words pomme de sang. I miss going places with you. I fished it out, flung it open, but held on to it. And that Nathaniel is living here, cooking and cleaning, what is he, like a maid? He's my pomme de sang, I said, and my voice was as cold as my face.
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