Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. Did you really doubt if I knew?” “No. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent.
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