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I prefer a Remy Martin straight, sipping it slowly after Genevieve has crossed the room. Like a crosshair from a 1940s German scope, she dashed between the up, down, left and right lines of the vision. I couldn't get her straight. At this point my infuriating ingenue Amylase sidled up to the bar, hitching up the dark green velvet dress which turned a different tone in each angle of light. Puglian skin, almost carrying the Italian heat, sat underneath. I looked, she scoffed, and pull-grabbed my hand.


'Don't do that – you don't want to spill this. This is Remy Martin.'


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