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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"Burned Bridges"

"
Thompson pricked up his ears.
"Oh, you know about that, eh?" he remarked. "How--"
"Not as much as I'd like to," she interrupted. "Will you come?"
"Yes," he agreed. "But give a fellow a chance. Don't drag me into your
home looking like this. I'm not vain, but I'd feel more comfortable in
clean clothes. I shipped all my things into town. They should be in the
express office now. I'll come this afternoon or this evening, whichever
you say. Drop me off at the first carline."
"I'll do better than that," she declared. "I'll drive you downtown
myself."
"But it isn't necessary," he persisted. "I don't want to take up all
your time, and--"
"For the rest of this day," Sophie murmured, "I have absolutely nothing
to do but kill time. I get restless, and being out in the car cures that
feeling. Do you mind if I chauff you a few miles more or less? Don't be
ungallant. I love to drive."
"Oh, well."
Thompson mentally threw up his hands. In that gracious mood Sophie was
irresistible. He sank back in the thick, resilient upholstery and
resolved to take what the gods provided--to dance as it were, and reckon
with the piper when he presented his bill.


CHAPTER XVII
THE REPROOF COURTEOUS(?)

For the few minutes it took the red roadster to slip under the green
summits of Twin Peaks and by a maze of boulevards debouch at length upon
Valencia and so into the busy length of Market Street their talk ran to
commonplaces.


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