The bus however was full. “Who wouldn’t be for you?” The train began to move. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. But not so much a pig as that man. ‘Let it fall!’ ‘Brute!’ she spat, struggling, and he knew at once he had guessed aright. 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. “It has been a delightful evening for me. I’ll show it to you later. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. "I have nearly done," replied the stranger. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn.
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