She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. "Well," she said, in reply, "I may have done Jack an injustice. And were you to load me with thrice the weight of iron you have ordered you should not prevent my escaping a third time. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. Now he courted with “servants” which he often killed afterward. There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. It was now a quarter past twelve.
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