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As a kid spending weekends in the Ozarks, I remember my granny's preacher shaking his fist, his jowls waving in the wind not unlike a bloodhound's, excoriating the congregation and condemning it to hell.
As a kid spending weekends in the Ozarks, I remember my granny's preacher shaking his fist, his jowls waving in the wind not unlike a bloodhound's, excoriating the congregation and condemning it to hell.
