Shari was snoring, the pill having worked its magic. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. He gave her one of the sweaty red cans.
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