The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. They found out Cris had some sort of criminal past, more child abuse stuff of course. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. Her father had determined on a new line. Probably hadn't. ‘Didn’t mean it, love.
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