the next morning

Page


He rang the doorbell. It was too late at night, really, but have you ever met a punk, a real punk, who lets rules be-guide him? The door opened and Elizabeth’s father killed him, the punk, with the barrel-end of a shotgun smoking in his falling face. Next morning the father fixed the punk’s car, which had broken down out front of his house last night, and returned it to the grieving family.




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