She drew his penis out of the strange little vent in his boxer shorts. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. What she admired in her man was his resolute defense of his opinions. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. They didn’t talk about it much, but Mike had been through some eerily similar foster homes in Florida, the where he was born. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. Sheppard. Giles's round-house.
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