Kenneth Bernoska

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She was pouring coffee. She did not look at him. “Tommy,’’ she said hesitantly, timidly. “Yeah?’’ His timidity was set off by hers, a curious embarrassment. Each one knew the other was shy, and became more shy in the knowledge. “Tommy, I got to ask you—you ain’t mad?’’ “Mad, Ma?’’ “You ain’t poisoned mad? You don’t hate nobody? They didn’ do nothin’ in that jail to rot you out with crazy mad?’’
The Grapes of Wrath
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