Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. Above the housetops it was different. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. "I don't know," she answered vaguely. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. ‘I should never have told you. That would be him.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ5LjI0Mi4yNTMgLSAxMi0wNS0yMDI0IDE2OjQ5OjE0IC0gMTg1NDEzMDM5OQ==
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