“The thumb-toe and the pinky-toe, I think. He still has his three middle ones.” “They're not called the thumb-toe and pinkytoe,” said Stuart. “It's big toe and little toe.”
His eyes are cold, and the chill between us twists in the pit of my stomach.
A match scratched and the sweet rankness of his corn-cob pipe drifted through the rooms.
The White House would be the culmination of a quest for power that contrasts with the powerlessness of his poverty-ridden early years and the helplessness that followed the war wound.
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