Strict orders had been given by Mrs. Breen the night before that certain dustings and arrangings of furniture should take place, the spacious stairs swept, and the hectic hired palms in their great china pots watered.
When Lance was introduced, he held out his hand toward the feeb and said, “Hi, I'm current occupant:” The FBI agent was so nervous about the chopper flight he never noticed.
Maybe one should appeal to this man who calls himself Saint Claus: his gifts aren’t too large but they come with greater regularity.
[…]a red flannel shirt of Fred's, soft and blouselike[…]
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