Mr. "I'm tired of the life I'm leading. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. Not a job he may care about; but he's a good sport. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. Oh, God!” Rhea sniffed the air through two gaping nostrils that had eroded through her onion skin flesh.
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