“I know why you picked her,” Frank says, still sitting on the grass. “She’s like you, sort of. A writer. Unhappy. Wishing she had someone who understood her. That’s what killed her- being lonely.”
“I know why you picked her,” Frank says, still sitting on the grass. “She’s like you, sort of. A writer. Unhappy. Wishing she had someone who understood her. That’s what killed her- being lonely.”
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