“Excuse me?” Mike threw Michelle a strange look, bursting into a grin. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “I should kill you. I have established a fine trade. He's here," returned the skipper, pointing significantly downwards. Homosexuals weren’t looked too kindly upon in their exclusive suburban neighborhood, not even dashing handsome ones.
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