Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. She charged boldly into the space of Miss Miniver’s rhetorical pause. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. “I say!” he said, without any movement.
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