Cathy Beck was outraged. She still had her letter of credit. In the beginning Ah Cum would run his glance speculatively over the assortment and select that individual who promised to be the most companionable. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. I'll go alone. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. .
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