Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. Beethoven; he’s the best of them.
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