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Ben! Doubtless you recall my daughter. A few years ago, when you were in my apartment on 55th Street going over the details of my will, she bit you on the wrist. I will always recall your graceful attitude—it must have been a painful bite because she had already cut her twelve-year molars, but you merely whimpered. Today, at sixteen, she still has the distressing habit. Or at least I believe she has. As you will note from the postmark, I am out of the country and have not seen her for several weeks. The gods chided me that night. I hardly recognized them. They were fatter, more confident, ready for deliverance. I warned them about premature optimism, but they laughed anyhow. Yes—Yes. May I carry it? I let it crumple to the floor and sat there, holding one of her old shoes in my hand. I know what happened to it. It was half past twelve when the cab deposited her on the corner of Market and Sansome. In view of the fact that Fenton Egan was not due at his office until early afternoon, which likely meant one-thirty or two, she treated herself to a much more satisfactory midday meal than yesterdays, dining at a nearby brasserie on shrimp salad and broiled sand dabs with melted butter. According to cousin Callie, butter was a product of the devil — bad for one’s digestion and circulation as well as one’s waistline. The irony in this opinion was that Callie regularly consumed gooey cakes and pastries made with a great deal of both butter and sugar, a fact she blithely ignored. Its the solitude, she thought.I ought to pack up and leave, return the money I have not earned and live at ease again with conscience. The captain unlocked the heavy door. At the far end, two more guards sat, complacently playing cards, while a third stood at a door a few yards away. A television screen imbedded in the door was connected to an interior camera which showed the room within. — Edgar Alan Poe,Ulalume Speechless, Arison let himself be marched off to a light military vehicle. "Sacred cow," said our Mr. Piper. Project Telescope is finished. You may try to get someone else to finish it, but you mil not.” What I hadnt been doing, I told myself, was thinking about the crusoe in a systematic way. Then I heard her scream. But the yarn was not over for me. What purpose to action if, beyond giving some release to the manic-depressive, it has no meaning? In the middle of it all, the answer to the goonie puzzle had hit me. But the answer solved nothing; it served only to raise much larger questions. Every summer, sometime in August, four good friends of mine and I go for a weeks fishing on the St. Regis chain of lakes in the Adirondacks. We rent the same shack each summer; we drift around in canoes, and sometimes we catch a few bass. The fishing isn’t very good, but we play cards well together, and we cook out and generally relax. This summer past, I had some thingsto do that couldn’t be put off. I arrived three days late, and the weather was so warm and even and beguiling that I decided to stay on by myself for a day or two after the others left. There was a small flat lawn in front of the shack, and I made up my mind to spend at least three or four hours at short putts. That was how I happened to have the putting iron next to my bed. But the teller said:Sure. Dont worry; I won’t do anything foolish. He began taking bills out of the drawer and stuffing them in a big manila envelope. Roche saw the wrappers on the wads of bills: $1,000; $5,000; $3,000; $50,000..
