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I saw Carol maybe three times a year. She looked up at me with her sad, green eyes. The sense of suffering was almost palpable. "I need it," she begged. "Now is neither the time nor the place!" I announced drunk guys defiantly."Forsooth!" she persisted. "Shalt thou not lend me thine shoulder that I may inhale thy sickly scent?" I knew what she wanted. Even though her daughter's ashes had been scattered liberally around drunk guys the Disney Store in drunk guys Manchester's Arndale Centre almost three years previously, Carol still maintained that she could smell her on me. "Carol," I pleaded. "Thou art mother in law and in law alone. Not in heart, nor mind, nor breast. Not in blood, nor milk, nor in the eyes of the Lord."Carol would not be told. "But sire, I implore ye! Thou art my son in law and in deed, in memory and in soul. My need to smell the floral tones of my daughter's loins from the nape of thine waxy neck is volcanic in its magnitude and brutal in its dogged determination.
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