“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. . She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. But though he made Blueskin and Kettleby his chief marks, he missed both. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat.
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