The young man was mollified by her sympathy, and flattered by the obvious attempts of several of the other guests to draw him into conversation. He told me that he was a millionaire. In mailing the tales he had not enclosed return postage or the equivalent in money. ” “Wait? For what?” She replied. ‘I told you I could handle her. You know—if you want freedom. ” She shrugged her shoulders. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
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