Danielle Marsland, almost every time, is a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in the amazingly dense folds of her hearts-driven etymology, most usually bedraggled rather than amused with the potentially perfect circle of dried wine that clings delicately to the bottom of her glass. In the not ‘every time’, she could play xylophone symphonies with the collection of half-drunk coffee mugs that lie in assorted formation atop her desk, each sipped maybe once or twice before inspiration inevitably
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