Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. ’ Colour suffused the man’s face. She was frightfully hungry. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. The Night-Cellar XVIII. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “Then why go out with him, Michelle? Why belabor yourself?” Lucy questioned.
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