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The battle was over. Victory had been seized, or so she was told. Our heroine was spent and could not, with certainty, distinguish it from failure. At the victory feast there was no lobster bisque. No bouillabaise with warm, crusty bread. No chocolate torte with fresh raspberries for dessert. Not even a dang donut with sprinkles. Just a bucket of porridge - cold groaty dick, actually. Is this what success tastes like? Thanks, but I'll pass. Fie on Waterstone's.
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