The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist. "I told you the prison wasn't built that could hold me," cried Jack. And a broken picture that was torn when I hit him with it. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast.
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