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datatime: 2022-12-04 20:54:27 Author:dshQrYiA

'The letter,' she repeated.

Harry shook his head. 'I can't afford Broadway, Mrs. Swann.'

'So I did,' she said, conceding his point with an apologetic look. 'Forgive me. That was Swann talking. He hated to be called a magician. He said that was a word that had to be kept for miracle-workers.'

'I called him a magician a while back,' Harry said. 'You corrected me.'

'So I did,' she said, conceding his point with an apologetic look. 'Forgive me. That was Swann talking. He hated to be called a magician. He said that was a word that had to be kept for miracle-workers.'

'To Hamburg,' she said, 'I don't like this city. It's too hot. And too cruel.'

'I'd think sometimes-it was a kind of miracle that he let me into his life . . .'

'Did you ever see his performance?'

'Is this wise?' he said.

'Don't blame New York,' he said. 'It can't help itself.'

'I read about it. Tragic.'

Harry wanted to say Swann would have been mad not to have done so, but the comment was inappropriate. She didn't want blandishments; didn't need them. Didn't need anything, perhaps, but her husband alive again.

'I'd think sometimes-it was a kind of miracle that he let me into his life . . .'

'Did you ever see his performance?'

Valentin had re-appeared, his lugubrious features rife with suspicion. He carried an envelope, which he clearly had no desire to give up. Dorothea had to cross the carpet and take it from his hands.

'Don't blame New York,' he said. 'It can't help itself.'

'Don't blame New York,' he said. 'It can't help itself.'

'I'm sorry. My name is Swann, Mr. D'Amour. Dorothea Swann. You may have heard of my husband?'

'May I ask . . . your name?'

'May I ask . . . your name?'

'Don't blame New York,' he said. 'It can't help itself.'

'But you don't believe it?'

He looked at her strangely, almost as though she'd said something obscene.

Harry shook his head. 'I can't afford Broadway, Mrs. Swann.'

'I'd think sometimes-it was a kind of miracle that he let me into his life . . .'

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