" "Is the poor lady alive?" asked Mrs. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me. This is a joke of yours. That wasn’t even the worst thing. My nerves were in rags. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. .
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