“All right, Dunster,” he said. "There's another instance of your wilfulness and want of taste. I just like you, Mary, and we’ve had a lot of fun. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. I ——” He stopped short. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. Confound this slavery of sex! I am a man! I will get this under if I am killed in doing it!” She scowled into the cold blacknesses about her. “I thought you were coming right across the Park.
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