Mike and Shari sat at the kitchen table eating potato chips. Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. She turned her head to each side. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up.
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