"Thus," replied the prize-fighter. Bring me clothing, I beg of you. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. “We were bound to do this when you kissed me,” she sobbed through her tears.
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