"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. He’s a salesman for AT and T, but he’s never made a lot of money. The smile had become a laugh. It was as if he could smell it on her. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. That Frenchie, that’s who she is. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her.
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