“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. Sheila knew that the Eat & Shop on the corner of 53rd and Oleson was a flimsy front for an all-in-the-family whorehouse. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. ’ She was seized by two strong hands and drawn close. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask.
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