I feel years younger, a man again. That’s what I mean. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. Money was not necessary; indeed, it would have embarrassed all concerned.
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