. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips. "Your son," answered the boy. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. “I’d have to be blown up into a thousand pieces. The silence grew unbearable, so she asked, \"What is your surname, John?\" \"My surname? You mean my last name?\" \"Yes.
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