I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. But the love of life prevailed over his fears. “Will you come round to the hospital?” he asked. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley.
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