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A strange boy with a photograph, or photograph, water polo-ed into my shop this morning with a queer, or queer, request. Now, this boy was youngish, a bit boyish, and indeed quite young. Spontaneously young, judging from the umbilical cord. He opened conversational persiflage with a timid or shy or diffident or queer or queer request: Strange Boy with a Photo: Excuse me, sir. Is it okay . . . um, I lost my dog. May I, please, sir, put a picture of my dog in your window? In case someone sees him, that is. Melts the heart like a witch burning, doesn't it? I let him use the copulatorium gratis. Mr. Dalliard attended to him personally. |
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A strange man with a cowlick penetrated the gentle pinkness of my shop today. ( Our exchange went thuswhich )
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