Rank ingratitude, I call it. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. When she had finished the first tale, there was a sense of disappointment. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see.
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