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Conscience.  

Member rating: 2 out of 10 stars (1 vote) | Words: | Submitted: Tue Dec 02 2003

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Conscience He was dressed in a sluggish grey-green coat with dull checks. It reflected his character like a murky pond and the story he was feeding me smelt the same. I didn't like his attitude. The way he leered at me with his nicotine yellow teeth and thin sharp lips. It made me feel really uncomfortable. Like I shouldn't be there. I'd forgotten, as usual that I wasn't invited. I noticed that as he repeated himself his gnarled fingers were ever whitening at the knuckles. His hair was greased back off his face as if he'd put a vat full of chip fat on it. It made him look slimy and manipulating. If he'd been a well dressed man with a polite attitude I would not have given a second thought to his wife's suicide. The man in front of me was showing no sign of remorse, not even the slightest bit of...

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