“Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. The occasion is worth a dash of the grape, lad. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. Don't ask any more questions.
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