"ð˜Šð˜³ð˜¢ð˜»ð˜º? ð˜¥ð˜¶ð˜¯ð˜¯ð˜°' 'ð˜£ð˜°ð˜¶ð˜µ ð˜¤ð˜³ð˜¢ð˜»ð˜º, ð˜'𘥠ð˜´ð˜¢ð˜º ð˜ºð˜°ð˜¶'ð˜³ð˜¦ ð˜«ð˜¶ð˜´ð˜µ 𘢠ð˜µð˜¢ð˜¥ ð˜®ð˜°ð˜³ð˜¦ ð˜ªð˜¯ð˜µð˜¦ð˜³ð˜¦ð˜´ð˜µð˜ªð˜¯', 𘢠ð˜ð˜ªð˜' ð˜¶ð˜¯ð˜±ð˜³ð˜¦ð˜¥ð˜ªð˜¤ð˜µð˜¢ð˜£ð˜ð˜¦."
"ð˜‰ð˜¦ð˜´ð˜ªð˜¥ð˜¦ð˜´, ð˜µð˜©ð˜¦ ð˜¤ð˜³ð˜¢ð˜»ð˜ªð˜¦ð˜´ð˜µ ð˜¸ð˜°ð˜®ð˜¦ð˜¯ ð˜¢ð˜³ð˜¦ ð˜µð˜©ð˜¦ ð˜±ð˜³ð˜¦ð˜µð˜µð˜ªð˜¦ð˜´ð˜µ."
"ð˜ˆð˜¯ð˜¥ ð˜ª'𘮠ð˜«ð˜¶ð˜´ð˜µ 𘢠ð˜±ð˜°ð˜°ð˜³ ð˜£ð˜¢ð˜´ð˜µð˜¢ð˜³ð˜¥ ð˜µð˜©ð˜¢ð˜µ ð˜ð˜°ð˜·ð˜¦ð˜´ ð˜±ð˜³ð˜¦ð˜µð˜µð˜º ð˜µð˜©ð˜ªð˜¯ð˜¨ð˜´."
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They would ooze rumours of both you're name, placed with the utterly specific adjectives, 'deranged', 'psychotic', and simply 'sick'. That was what you were known for, context or not. It was a simple way of living. Within the red-dirt town of Sandrange, with little entertainment and a harbour of saloon-goers in need of any form of amusement, this made you a target whether you liked it or not. Although, not unfamiliar with the wording, it's both the eyes of their burning scowls and the words that spit like fire from their tongue's that become something you can never get used to.
So, you never left home. Cacooned in your home for weeks to months on end, all to hide from the town and the prejudice they willingly held, this torturous routine had only been broken by the two knocks on my door, and the call of the Sheriff requesting to come inside.
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