"Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. Bought her a nose job for her sixteenth birthday along with a car, I forget what model, but it was a nice car, a Mercedes convertible. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip.
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