Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. Cursed him for his devotion that had made him come back for her, only to get himself shot by the fiendish Gosse. “Come, daddy,” said Ann Veronica, following her husband and Miss Stanley; and in the fulness of her heart she gave a friendly squeeze to the parental arm. It was warm, shielding, comforting, and what was more, full of understanding. " "Don't anger him, my dear son," implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack.
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