The girls who had tormented me in high school had fallen, hard, from their pedestals. The cheerleader goddesses were Wal-Mart moms, wearing enough eyeliner and dark shadow to supply a Goth nightclub for a month.
[…] they rested their hopes of redress on the independent use of their elective franchise;
She screwed up her brow and frowned. Oh Oliver, wouldja please?
Oh Oliver, wouldja please?
We fights for ten minutes or so, and then I hits him a round blow on the ear, and he falls down on the hard, and couldn't come to time. No wonder, poor fellow ! for he had gone to eternity.
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