It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. She described it so vividly. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. It’s not you—not a bit. "You know what I mean," said the trader, gravely.
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