“Here is my card. He believed me when I asked him to marry me. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. “Show me around you house, John. You understand. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere.
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