He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. “Umph!” he said, and regarded his letter doubtfully before consigning it to the pillar-box. I’ve made no mention of guns and daggers or, indeed, any of the more exciting aspects of the business. But the first one was brought home, and it was the beginning of the end.
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