e that it's my dust-catcher) slipped across my mind much asthat queer draft ad slipped across my face. But she was-- Thank you, Mr. Farther up Highway 68, I could see the bright white fluorescents overthe gas island at the Lakeview General. I paid him quariterly, as is thecustom with caretakers in that part of the world; Bill Dean, old Yankeefrom a long line of them, cashed my checks and didn't ask why I neverused my place anymore.
He looked at me silently. I didn't get choked up ( Don't go all corny onme, Mike, Siddy would sometimes whisper when we were kids at the moviesand I got wet-eyed at a sad part), but I thought of Jo, yes. I looked back for a few seconds, then startedfiddling my spoon through the whipped cream on top of my shortcake. Wel , I suppose looked at from the professional point of view.
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