His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. “Because I know for a fact that she was having sex with Gary Rothko during homecoming Freshman year and she let him pork her up the ass.
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