Think better of it. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. This was the first young man who had drawn from her something more than speculative interest. They are very good people, you know. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. She gave her lips to his without resistance.
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