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~::三端私服|Jimena Carranza::~

~::三端私服|Jimena Carranza::~



                                                                          • 'And pray, what did you mean by that, sir?' demanded Mr. Creakle, turning angrily on his assistant.'Do you remember that I tried to tell you, when I came home, what a debt of gratitude I owed you, dearest Agnes, and how fervently I felt towards you?'


                                                                            I couldn't help smiling at his earnestness. I could almost hear him calling over to O'Donnell as they roared along, "Hell, we'll have Jack Kennedy on our tails any moment now!" I said, "Well, there's a man called James Bond who's involved. He saved me and shot these two gangsters. He's some kind of an English agent, secret service or something. He was driving from Toronto to Washington to report on a case, and he got a flat and ended up at the motel. If he hadn't, I'd be dead by now. Anyway, I guess he must be someone pretty important. He told me he wanted to make sure this Mr. Sanguinetti didn't get away to Mexico or somewhere. But that's more or less all I know about him, except that-except that he seemed a wonderful guy."


                                                                                                                                                    • "Have one? Senior Service. I suppose it'll have to be Chesterfields from now on." His mouth turned slightly down as he smiled.


                                                                                                                                                      'My son is ill.'



                                                                                                                                                                                                                              • Mrs. Phancey, an iron-gray woman with bitter, mistrustful eyes and a grim slit of a mouth, was at the desk when I came in that evening. She had looked sharply at me, a lone girl, and at my meager saddlebags, and, when I pushed the Vespa over to Number 9, she followed me with my card in her hand to check that I had not entered a false vehicle license. Her husband, Jed, was more genial, but I soon understood why when the back of his hand brushed against my breast as, later in the cafeteria, he put the coffee in front of me. Apparently he doubled as handyman and short-order cook and, while his pale brown eyes moved over me like slugs, he complained whiningly about how much there was to do around the place getting it ready for closing date and constantly being called away from some job to fry eggs for parties of transients. It seemed they were the managers for the owner. He lived in Troy. A Mr. Sanguinetti. "Big shot. Owns plenty property down on Cohoes Road. Riverfront property. And the Trojan Horse-roadhouse on Route 9, outside Albany. Maybe you know the joint?" When I said I didn't, Mr. Phancey looked sly. "You ever want some fun, you go along to The Horse. Better not go alone, though. Pretty gal like you could get herself roughed up. After the fifteenth, when I get away from here, you could give me a call. Phancey's the name. In the phone book. Be glad to escort you, show you a good time." I thanked him, but said I was just passing through the district on my way south. Could I have a couple of fried eggs, sunny-side up, and bacon?


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                AND INDIA.