He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. He refused to believe that Anna was not ‘Alcide.
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