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Updated: May 9, 2025
Craig the uncle, you remember, an invalid died. And he's made me the guardian of his niece " "The poor boob." Garry's voice was sad and sincere. "Garry! Are you or are you not my friend?" "I am." "Then listen. Next I want you to ask Max Kreiling for the name and address of the French woman he knows who teaches music " "Just a minute, Kenny, old man. Let me say this all after you.
Max Kreiling was furiously hunting missing sheets from a ragged stack of music on the piano and grumbling in German about his host's habits. The fire flared. Caesare's dark face, always tense, relaxed into smiles. When Garry appeared the wood-fire was blazing and Caesare was plucking in nervous pizzicato at the strings of his fiddle.
New York with its shops where with Ann she had gasped and laughed and colored and stared into mirrors, its lights, its crowds, its theaters, its opera where Max Kreiling sang and left her with a sob in her heart, its amazing Bohemia of success of which Kenny was a part, seemed to her but a never-ending sparkle of romance and kindness.
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