A touch of wistfulness entered his expression. “Do you think . . . before you go . . . you could sing me the last verse?” He rubbed his neck, sheepish once more. “If you feel like it.” As if I’d ever had a choice. “Their babe they named Abe,” I sang on a watery chuckle, “his brother Green Gabe. Then Belle and Adele and Keen Kate. Soon dozens came mewling, but still they kept screwing, even outside the pearly gates.” His face burned so vivid a scarlet it rivaled my every memory, but he grinned from ear to ear regardless. “That’s indecent.” “Of course it is,” I whispered. “It’s a pub song.” His
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