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Updated: May 4, 2025
Private Rose set one foot slightly in front of the other, poised for fight, flight, or compromise. "How do you do?" repeated Peter politely. "I'm o'right." "Can I offer you a drink?" Private Rose looked at him searchingly, suspecting possible sarcasm. "O'right," he said finally. Peter indicated a chair. "Sit down." "I got a friend," said Rose, "I got a friend in there."
"Does your brother work around here?" asked Rose, assuming the air of one passing from the superficial to the eternal. "He oughta," replied Key. "I ain't seen him for a coupla years. I been out to Pennsylvania since. Maybe he don't work at night anyhow. It's right along here. He can get us some o'right if he ain't gone."
By the time they reached Delmonico's it was half past ten, and they were surprised to see a stream of taxis driving up to the door one after the other and emitting marvelous, hatless young ladies, each one attended by a stiff young gentleman in evening clothes. "It's a party," said Rose with some awe. "Maybe we better not go in. He'll be busy." "No, he won't. He'll be o'right."
This started him thinking of Key with a vague sentimentality, not unmixed with awe. Key was dead. He had fallen thirty-five feet and split his skull like a cracked cocoa-nut. "He was a darn good guy," thought Rose mournfully. "He was a darn good guy, o'right. That was awful hard luck about him."
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