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In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. It was dawn: Cathy would soon be off to the restaurant and Larry off to paint a house. After all, this could never be the black sheep. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. stare. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. She moved her hand off of his knee, deliberately slow.
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This video was uploaded to jandlonmark.org on 28-06-2024 04:59:45
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