He gave her one look. But then, he was always giving her things. He had been generous from the first. Not content with that, he gave her a cuff on the jaw. It was one of his best cuffs, too.
“You are late, girl! Come up to my room on the fourth story, the only story, unfortunately, with a happy ending. It is in the East wing, near the wishbone. Follow me!”
Did it bode murder, or marriage? Angie hardly cared. All she knew was that she was beautiful and desperate and slightly bowlegged; and heaven helping her, she would make this man her slave. If heaven wouldn’t help her, it would be hell.
How they ever got up to the room she never knew—so why should I—or you? Perhaps they crawled up the mail chute. Perhaps they were carried up on a tray, disguised as two near-gin rickeys and a liverwurst sandwich. But they are in the room already and we’ll have to hurry to catch up to them.
At last she was alone with him and two dozen mouse-traps. They were all arranged upon the bed, all different nationalities, though most of them were females. Why
