Towler stood, tall and broad, his shoulders slightly bent forward, leaving his sport coat open to flap gently in the mild sea breeze. “I saw you with that little harlot. Amos, she’s young enough to be your daughter. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that. I tend to like younger women, they’re softer, if you know what I mean.” He chuckled deeply, his eyes sliding to Amos’s. “But, this one is trash. I can look at her and tell you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. Where in the hell did you pick that one up anyway?”
Not waiting for a reply, Towler barked his next words. “Get rid of her, I don’t care how, tell her you’re married,” he paused for a moment, “Well, I assume you’ve already done that.”
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