Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. ” “What’s our lot?” asked her sister. ‘Unheard of, ain’t it? To tell the truth, I half expected him to leave everything to one of his doxies. Whatever she does is minimized. I mean—I mean to do what I can. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said.
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