132 “I thought you wanted me—you told me so when we kissed in the park!” He cried. “I do not understand. Supper was over. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. "Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her temper by any means improved—hem!" "Say no more on the subject, Sir," observed the stranger, gravely; "but let us turn to a more agreeable one—her daughter.
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