set down his pen.
The security guard, a big gentle boy named Tommy Ruiz whose mother I taught in Sunday School, looked at the floor.
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I wanted to ask what kind of people he meant.
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Old people? Dirty people? Widows in dead men’s hats?
I didn’t.
George used to say a raised voice only proves the other fellow’s point.
He said it to me a thousand times over fifty-one years of marriage. Usually when I was about to give somebody a piece of my mind.
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