ed politician’s tones had been replaced by an accent as thick as that in the voice of any back-country farmhand from Onnie’s Ford. “Susan and Sheemie? What about them? How do we know they’re all right?”“I suppose that we don’t. them, running beneath a city which has become a slaughtering-pen, will make no difference when the pink She took in Susan’s pale face and tearstained cheeks at once.
I put that figure on my manuscript as it grew (and grew . I have to get up, Roland thought. As though such a wonder could ever belong to a back-country reader of rooster-guts such as you. Listen to Creedence or Marvin Gaye or maybe even Elvis’s Greatest Hits on the tape-player.
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