Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. ‘Point it at me. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. It’s gone. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere.
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