The kindly American consul-general had himself taken her to the bank, where her banknotes had been exchanged for a letter of credit, and had thoroughly advised her. A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. Water soaked her through in five minutes. "Where?" "That can wait," she answered. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. “I—I shall be all right directly. I’m anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found a treasure.
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