Her mouth was once more covered as they left the second floor guest saloon and headed for the back stairs. “Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. I can't pump out all there is to these compositions. . . Nobody can trust you.
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