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... is chest.
I just found out that her crescent machete still stabbed him. She lowered her eyelashes, picked up the crescent scimitar scattered in the ground, and stood in the room, quietly, no one spoke.
Moonlight, diffused in through the window, thin and thin like butterfly wings, bleak like ice, and sprinkled on his shoulder. He was looking at her lazily with a smile of candles and moonlight.
She hesitated for a moment, or walked to him slowly, and asked astringently, "Are y ...
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