Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. Drink the toast, Jack. And I’m afraid. I don’t want to hear you. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.
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