Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. You’re a piss-poor liar, John. Besides, he might hear things. Heaven will not permit the continuance of such wickedness as you practise. He looked just as Julian had the night she had first met him outside the Joliet Laundromat. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence.
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