Why don't you believe me? Whose vengeance is it that keeps cursing me for my making an ever more extravagant investment in what's to be made over to me from my more and more telling all? No, I am neither liked nor believed—or did I just lay down a plank of past-participializing wrong-way-wise from left to right? No matter, Gordo's busted—left behind by wife and child, naught left for him to do for himself but rattle around in search of gash and/or gash and romance. And so it was that I was able to form a yeasty introduction to a woman who made plain that she was Susan. Or had said Susanne. No matter—the matter was settled with dispatch—the practiced considerations ensuing at all modest speed—a brief tea at a tearoom excessively dainty enough, a not unmodulated vehemence of ardors passing from one to the other by telephone—and, with charming promptitude, the whole of it, concluded—to wit, that Susan or Susanne would come with herself to my place to a small supper that I would serve to her, and, if all appeared to go acceptably, not remove herself therefrom until an hour usefully deep into the morning.
