It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. They slow danced to a Bon Jovi ballad. K-kimble, sir,’ stammered the lad. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other.
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