Saturday

Romance by fated

She's ushered summer by the cow-hide. Brilliant deductions to blame herself. Not a fever of tasting cranberries conceals it. The hour has come, it's nigh. At the clinique she's classical to her abrupt allergories, concealing a rather ? excuse moi, he leaned. Out over the precipice of readerly orders. this can be no one to go. Not even Lady K and her magnificent trawlerries. Time to copy and paste her teeth.