He did not stagger in the least. I want you to turn me. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. She was glad not to be baking in it anymore, or feeling the fiberglass splinters 64 invading her rear end from sitting on the bleachers. His commissions this day would not fill his metal pipe with one wad of tobacco.
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