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That Thursday night I sat alone on the deck of the Hotel Helen Mar. It was near ten o'clock. I saw a flamingo rise from the river, and it flew over the Helen Mar, like a ghost, trailing its legs. And the ladder creaked, and Sadler came over the side. He stepped soft and long like a ghost. "How do?" he says, and sat down, and twankled his banjo. Then I asked, "Why? What for?"
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