I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. It was equally as beautiful but not quite so fine as the daughter's. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald.
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