" Still the voice was without emotion; calm, colourless. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. “My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. You were dying and your baby along with you. He reached a silver cigar and cigarette box from the sideboard and put it before his father-in-law, and for a time the preliminaries of smoking occupied them both. They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station.
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