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Updated: May 28, 2025
Not much more than a score of words. And yet before the half were spoken you were certain that Rachel Wiletzky's knowledge of lush green fields and bucolic scenes was that gleaned from the condensed-milk ads that glare down at one from billboards and street-car chromos. Hers was the ghetto voice harsh, metallic, yet fraught with the resonant music of tragedy.
He whipped from his breast-pocket the grey-bordered handkerchief, reached up swiftly and passed one white corner of it down the length of Rachel Wiletzky's Killarney-rose left cheek. The rude path down which the handkerchief had travelled deepened to red for a moment before both rose-pink cheeks bloomed into scarlet.
"H'm name?" asked the grey superintendent. He knew that vocal quality. A queer look stole into Rachel Wiletzky's face, a look of cunning and determination and shrewdness. "Ray Willets," she replied composedly. "Double l." "Clerked before, of course. Our advertisement stated " "Oh yes," interrupted Ray Willets hastily, eagerly. "I can sell goods. My customers like me. And I don't get tired.
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