Suppose our proper place is a shrine. Cautiously stepping outside, he looked up towards the terrace. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. Think better of it. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee.
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