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Updated: May 9, 2025
In such a moment of soul dishabille and her own dishabille of bosom bulging above the tight lacing of her corset-line as she lay prone, her mouth sagging and wet with tears, her lips blowing outward in bubbles, a picture, in fact, to gloss over, Mae Munroe dragged herself closer, flinging her arms about the knees of Mr. Zincas, sobbing through her raw throat. "Just a month, Max! Don't ditch me!
"Broad three-six." And tapped with one foot as she stood. "Zincas Importing Company? I want to speak to Mr. Max Zincas." Wrinkles crawled about her uncertain lips. "This is his his mother. Yes, Mrs. Zincas." She closed her eyes as she waited. "Hello, Max? That you, Max?" She grasped at the snout of the instrument, tiptoeing up to it. "It's me, dear. But I had to get you to the 'phone somehow.
She fell to rocking herself backward and forward, her rollicking laughter staining her face dark red. "Whoops la, la! Whoops la, la!" Suddenly Max Zincas rose to his height, regarding her sprawling uncontrolled pose with writhing lips of distaste, straightened his waistcoat, cleared his throat twice, and, standing, drank the last of his wine. But a pallor crept up, riding down the flush.
At five minutes past eight Max Zincas fitted his key into the door and entered immediately into the front room. On that first click of the lock Mae Munroe stepped out from between the lace curtains, her face carefully powdered and bleached of all its morning inaccuracies, her lips thrust upward and forward. "Max!" "Whew!"
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