He gave her one of the sweaty red cans. She rode him gently. “Hi John. The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. “And yet,” he said, “you bid me talk cheerfully, or not at all.
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