Margot’s part in the ay had come to an end and, now, as her mind was beginning to—appropriately—mind the mundungus of her attire whilst yearning for the antithesis of the last third of a day, she was able to hang up just enough of her hangover to push herself into a brush and bathe before plopping upon the cot—into whose ought she wish she had last night bought and on which sharing her debauched scent she did not want—for a reprieve of the eve as held yawn met the dawn and soul roughed got refluffed. ; )
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