I told her I was sick today and she told me to get over myself. The Wastrel did not relish this. "If you get out o' that cage, I'll forgive you. You care for me just a little, I know. I am aware that you ran away from there, but—’ ‘Certainly I ran away,’ she said, meeting his gaze with defiance in her own. But I tell you in return, I shall take no pains to hide myself. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. It was enough that she witnessed it and could not go to him. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. But finding his hints totally disregarded, he, at length, swaggered up to the table, and thrust in a chair.
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