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Updated: May 20, 2025
Both smoke and are silent for a time, remembering small things out of the last eight years. "But what are you going to do, Ollie, now you've kissed the great god Advertising a fond good-by?" Ollie stirs uneasily. "Dunno exactly. I told you about those two short stories Easten wanted me to take out of my novel? Well, I've done it and sent 'em in and he'll buy 'em all right." "That's fine!"
If he could only get out of it get into something where his particular kind of mind and training would be useful oh well he grunts and turns back to his private affairs. The letter from Easten of Columbiac Magazines kindly enough but all hope of selling the serial rights of his novel gone glimmering because of it Easten was the last chance, the last and the best.
She's a number one, fust-class cook, knows all the northen an' southen an' easten an' westen kind of cookin', an' she's only got two chillun, what could keep in the house all day long an' not trouble nobody, 'side bringin' kindlin' an' runnin' errands; an' the husband, he's dead, an' that's a good sight better, Miss Miriam, than havin' him hangin' round, eatin' his meals here, an' bein' no use, 'cause he had rheumatism all over him, 'cept on his appetite."
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