‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. “It’s my fault. ‘Even the nuns they say I am like a devil. ” Lucy omitted the part where she “disappeared” him. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. She remembered abruptly that she was really living upon his money. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. They had cried a little, both. Opals.
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