God gives us an equal chance; but we make ourselves. His literary instincts began to stir. “Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. I'll wait for you down here. After that, we'll go our several ways. I snatched it up, pointed it blindly at him, and fired. The door opened, and a slightly overweight pretty blonde, an older, wiser version of Michelle, came into view. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored.
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