He stood transfixed. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. "Oh, Rollo, there are so many things I don't know! But you love me, don't you?" Rollo wagged his stump violently and tried to lick her face. There was scant social life on the Sha-mien aside from masculine foregatherings, little that interested him. The same overly curly pubic hair, which she now saw was trying to protrude from the sides of her bikini underwear.
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