Jazzlyn

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She really was a pretty woman. Tall, like Granddaddy, but curvy and hippy like an August pear. She was dark like all of us, with big lips that might’ve appeared swollen. Her crowning feature was a long, slender neck that, like a stream, poured into her torso. Dangling earrings danced between her lobes and shoulders. She was elegant without effort.
Don't Cry for Me
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