Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. I hated the stuff. But one thing troubled him, and because of it he might never arrive on the beach. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. My, um, my curfew. Ovarian cancer. He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech.
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