Father— dead. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. I'll teach you submission in time. They were exquisite. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. Selfishness. ” Sebastian slipped the piano wire around her throat, silencing her immediately.
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