‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. ’ ‘No, no,’ the other lady assured her with a twinkle. She licked his neck, which put him over the top.
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