I’m going on a sightseeing tour of Rome by night. Oh, my poor Nancy! Are things so bad with you? Terrible, Gerda, simply terrible. Business has really dropped off. She looked at me suspiciously. But there wasn’t any time for more chitchat because Mr. Gordon Stone arrived to claim her and whisk her away in a golden coach to the most distinguished restaurant in Rome. He was an ordinary, middle aged man, nearly bald, very chesty in his dinner jacket and pigeon toed when he walked; his eyes were pale blue and shrewd, his lips were thin and joyless, and I wished him every happiness with our Berlin battlewagon.
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