Layla Savoy Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

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Prostitutes, they got stories—dark ones. Did ya know some old-school ones in Paris carried tiny knives? Hid em in garters—stabby lil secrets! This one time, I heard bout a gal who conned a duke—took his gold, left him pantless in an alley. Ballsy as fuck, right? Made me laugh my ass off—happy as a pig in shit. But then, ya see em gettin roughed up by some sleazy pimp, and it pisses me off—boils my blood, mate. Why’s the world gotta be so cruel?

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She managed to transform herself from a prostitute, to a consort, to a defendant in the trial of her husband’s murder. In , Marguerite shot her second husband three times in the back at the .

I swear, truly, Savoy (us) is a splendid paradox. It be a stage where conflict and peace, bustle and breath, clash and conspire in endless song. Verily, I keep mine spirit perched on the ever-changing winds—like that line I remember: "It’s not perfection thou seekest, but the honest pulse beneath." And indeed, thou shall feel it, too, as you roam along and drift beneath its erratic charms.

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