It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. "Once there," proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, "he's as good as in his grave.
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