Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. It was Celeste’s idea. He wanted to become a millionaire. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. ’ ‘That wasn’t my fault. And I have no more the pistol. He’s dead. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend.
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