‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. You cannot possibly leave me here alone with Gerald. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. Goodbye. He loved the sea, and could give a good account of himself in any weather. Pain sliced into Gerald’s hand and his sword arm jerked. I don't believe he is much past forty. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes.
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