Alexander Hedges was a man of particular and discerning taste. He went to the same barber every other week, to the same restaurant on the weekends. He ordered the same food, and if it came out cooked poorly, Alexander was not a timid man. He would call the waiter aside and in no small terms illustrate to him what had gone wrong, and how he supposed it should be fixed.
With him, Alexander took things that he held dear to him. The same black leather gloves he’d carried since he’d gotten them on his thirtieth birthday, twenty years ago; his stingy brim bowler, grey; and most importantly his friend and companion, known only and famously as Smits...
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