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Updated: May 22, 2025
"Birch of the State Department sent regrets. A duty call on the Tasmanian Embassy or something." "Okay and next week he'll be screaming to high heaven about being left out." Marcia's laughing eyes agreed. "Ain't it the truth?" she marveled. Brent strode past her and expertly mussed her sleek hairdo in a quick gesture.
The afternoon sun glinted on a hairdo right out of Vogue or Harper's Bazaar. Her expression was distant; a look of impersonal pity showed on her face as she regarded Frank. "Tell me about it, sweetie." Frank cringed inwardly at the appellation. In Manhattan, everyone called everyone else sweetie. "There wasn't much to it. I called Taber and then went down to see him.
With another drink, she could do it. She dialed another drink and settled down with it beneath the mechanical stylist for a readjustment in the hairdo department. This time the stylist purred as it surveyed and hummed while it worked. And when the hairdo was done and Trigger moved to get up, its flexible little tool pads pulled her back gently into the seat and tilted up her chin.
In spite of the blue I-A fatigues and a rather severe pulled-back hairdo, this was a handsome woman. He found himself liking her, and this caused him a feeling near self-loathing. She was a suspect. He couldn't afford to like her. But the Bullones were being so decent, taking him in like this. And how was their hospitality being repaid? By spying and prying.
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