“Would you stand it? I’m going to clear out. ” She said. But the rise of the chest was quite perceptible now. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict.
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