His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. The smell that emanated from the opening was abominable. “Look, dear,” she said presently, “you can put the ten on the Jack. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless cruelty to give her a push toward it. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits.
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