Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. White men and natives dealt conveniently at Copeley's. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. His expression altered. I saw him last night at Jonathan Wild's, after my escape from the New Prison. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V.
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