’ ‘I’m hanged if I can make out either of you,’ complained Hilary. Businesswomen in pointy-toed shoes swooned coyly in his direction, tipping their noses over their glossy magazines to admire 273 him. If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. After a while he spoke again. Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men. ‘Soldier of fortune. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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