The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. She had become neutral towards him and he had used the lesson to try to advance himself. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. “My Mom never gets a good night’s sleep. Just sit down on that stool again and let’s talk of this in cold blood.
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