“But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. He never seemed to take full advantage while they were in his mammoth automobile. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. Wow. When I realized that she was a liar and a mean bitch I broke it off with her for good. That night in Paris I saw on the bills ‘Fatal Motor Accidents. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters.
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