‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen. ‘Still more would I be so if he had come himself to tell me this.
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