There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Michelle burst into laughter, followed by John, who almost spit up his cola. He seemed to be. Before any assistance could be rendered by the jailers, who stood astounded, Blueskin had got Wild in his clutches. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. I too can see it.
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