. ’ She edged sideways a little more, her eyes on the pistol in his hand. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. But this is all different. “Have you not missed me?” He inquired. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. “Michelle, I don’t ever want to hear you mention the subject you mentioned at dinner again. They were things I had meant very much to talk to you about, so that I went home vexed and disappointed, and only relieved myself a little by writing a few verses. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was.
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