Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. “I should like you to come here,” she said. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire.
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