The manager stared at the empty doorway for a space, shrugged, and returned to his ledgers. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst. "I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast.
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