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‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. " "How so?" inquired Winifred. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. “What a gloomy person you are!” she murmured.
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