I would even have taken a place as waitress in a tea shop. You shall tell me if I am wrong. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. He is all kindness, and will overlook them for your poor father's sake —for mine. It was the moment for smiles.
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