Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. And, by way of checking his housekeeper's familiarity, he pointed significantly to the table. By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him.
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