Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. She packed her things, then ran a mile to Julian’s apartment. Besides," she added, blushing yet more deeply, "it isn't a proper one to talk upon. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling.
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