The Whispering Master

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She was twenty-four years old and she had a complexion for which a movie star would have given a husband. She had gloriously golden hair (natural) and the kind of cleancut, fresh features that women hate, if they don’t have them.

And she was broke.

She had exactly three cents in her purse as she stared at Mr. Peabody’s third and positively final ultimatum. Thirty-three dollars and seventy-eight cents, by twelve o’clock, noon, or we must have your room, Mr. Peabody wrote.

Even at the Forty-fifth Street Hotel, this wasn’t a lot of money for a girl to raise — a girl with Marjorie Fair’s, shall we say, pulchritude? Except... well, that was the reason Marjorie was down to three cents.

She dropped Mr. Peabody’s note on her unmade bed and went to the window. The sight was not a cheerful one, an eight-foot air shaft which let a very little light and a great deal of dank air into the rooms surrounding it.

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