PEGGY-IN-THE-RAIN
If I call she will answer. Did you hear? Did you hear?
Such a sweet little wife! I love her, I love her!
Eh? Did she call? Just a minute, my dear;
I must finish my song; just a minute, a minute, a minute!
Oh, how I sing! I'm in love with my voice.
And my wife and the beautiful world! Heigho! Good night!
Here I come! Here I come! Here I come!
Off he darted, a gray streak in the soft twilight.
"If there's a Hammerstein in Birdland," murmured Gordon, "he will have you signed for next season, I bet."
He lighted a cigarette, flicked the match onto the lawn below and blew a blue cloud of smoke through the window,
"What a voice she had!" he went on, half to himself. "Peggy! What a dear, queer little name! Peggy-in-the-Rain, she called herself." He smiled. "Please, who are you, Peggy-in-the-Rain? And where are you now, I wonder. Just around the corner, on the next street? Up yonder there in the big hotel? Out on Whiskey Road in some big white stucco palace? Are you think-
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