” He was obviously puzzled. “No thanks. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. Down on me luck, I was, and they took me in. After that night she made it a habit. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat. He kissed her once inside the car. My, um, my curfew.
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