At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. You’d make a good Devil. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque. He's coming. “I do want you.
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