“Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. She felt the bedsprings coil as he moved from his seated position, entranced. He continued alternately to be tossed in the air, or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. Doesn’t matter a bit to me.
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