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Every story was being made up. My true friends weren't the ones speaking. It was people who never knew me, making up stories. Even my local paper put a $1,000 bounty out for information about my whereabouts.
— Marla Maples
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At Christmas-tide the open hand Scatters its bounty o'er sea and land, And none are left to grieve alone, For Love is heaven and claims its own.
— Margaret Elizabeth Sangster
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