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"I left him out here with Miss Bassett." "Yes, sir." "I had softened her up." "Yes, sir." "He knew exactly what he had to do. I had coached him thoroughly in lines and business." "Yes, sir. So Mr. Fink-Nottle informed me." "Well, then " "I regret to say, sir, that there was a slight hitch." "You mean, something went wrong?" "Yes, sir." I could not fathom.
Whether from some hereditary taint, or because he promised his mother he wouldn't, or simply because he doesn't like the taste of the stuff, Gussie Fink-Nottle has never in the whole course of his career pushed so much as the simplest gin and tonic over the larynx.
What I mean is that I found I had the thing all mapped out. The good old subconscious m. had delivered the goods, and I perceived exactly what steps must be taken in order to put Augustus Fink-Nottle among the practising Romeos.
This Fink-Nottle, you see, was one of those freaks you come across from time to time during life's journey who can't stand London. He lived year in and year out, covered with moss, in a remote village down in Lincolnshire, never coming up even for the Eton and Harrow match.
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