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The brutal grip of vice and poverty had driven her into the brawn of his arms. At first it was a great conquest, away from the hooksters and the sharks, the paunchy mafiosi and the losers in plaid. He meant money and she looked to get hitched. She didn't mind his porky fingers clawing her thigh. But money got slow, his beefy plasm had become annoying , the once covenant of his fleshy sinew had turned altogether slack. He blamed her, though by now she was fairly bled, her once snowy breast bruised. They parked at a blustery jersey dock. She got out, instantly a savage gust tore into her garb, her cloven halter top mauled. He tried holding her close, promising a world, but all lanes on the turnpike were stuck, the crossover at the bridge blocked, a rebound to brooklyn fairly choked off. How she longed to be home.