“I believe,” he said, “that you mean me to be Prime Minister. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. “Lucy, you have to play for us after dinner, oh please. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other.
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