Then she sang. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. There was another phrase which sounded something like 'Gin in a blue-serge coat'. Mrs. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. Gianfrancesco was a contact of mine, I had allied myself to his father before him, and unbeknownst to anyone, to his Great-great-granduncle during the time of Crusades.
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