He was profoundly stirred. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. “Quite right,” she said. It’s time she knew. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband? His luck was in.
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