Richard, he said. Gray head goggling fowlwise on a scarious neck, turning. The soapfilled eyesockets. Hey Suttree. How you doin? Okay. How are you. Other’n bein froze I caint complain. The blind man cracked a squaloid smile all full of toothblack and breakfast scraps. Are you holding anything? Smile draining. Aye, gape those barren lightshorn eyeballs. What did you need, Sut? Let me have a dime. Richard sought about in a gray pocket. Here you go. Thanks Richard.
