His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not. “Sort of man who can see no further than his nose,” he remarked contemptuously.
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