It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. When Sheila was in a good mood, one almost enjoyed her. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. “After all, it’s our honeymoon. We men are like children. “Do you want to ruin me? I shall walk back.
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