Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. "You base ingrate," she added, in a whisper, as she flounced past Mr. I haven’t, anyhow.
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