My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. She threw the bags of marijuana and a tiny bag of white powder he had in the sewer, unfortunately they were his only worldly possessions. ‘Good. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. On a high chair behind a raised counter the stipendiary’s substitute regarded her malevolently over his glasses. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness.
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