Wood—and after him came his daughter. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. So far the boy's mind was clear. So now I will say nothing more to you, and you will please to say nothing more to me, for I do not reply. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. “What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical.
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