” Ennison glanced at the other people in the box and smiled. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. ” “Thanks for the nice evening, John. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. It’s not you—not a bit. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket.
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