Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. She gloried in it: he needed her. He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly. "That's a fine tale," said Spurlock. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before.
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