It has become a part of the order of my life. The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache. The trio of girls approached the newly laid cement curb, where throngs of young girls in pink lip-gloss fanned and preened like peacocks as rich boys circled round, revving the engines of their father's red cars. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. Ruth loved him. “It’s my fault.
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