“Very well,” she picked up where I trailed off, “she was the kind of girl who’d sleep with anyone, right?” “Right.” “But not with you, right?” There was an edge to her voice. I glanced up from the salad bowl. “You think not?” “Somehow, no,” she said quietly. “You, you’re not the type.” “What type?” “I don’t know, there’s something about you. Say there’s an hourglass: the sand’s about to run out. Someone like you can always be counted on to turn the thing over.”
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