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 the doorway, I found a trim young person gazing at me. As the illumination which came from a single, unshaded electric bulb set on a blank wall opposite the door was behind her, I could see at first only that she wore a dark, tailored suit and a small, dark hat over hair which was unbobbed, abundant and light in color—almost as light as Dorothy Crewe's had been.

"Steve, do you want to talk with Jerry?" she asked me calmly. "Come in, then."

She stepped back, and I stepped after her. As soon as I was in, she closed the door; and there was Jerry standing in the corner back of the door.

"Hello, Steve," he greeted me without emotion.

"Hello, Jerry," I said, and tried to show as little, but I was feeling more than ever before in my life. For here we were, Jerry and I, who'd spent all our lives together; here we were alone with that girl, who'd evidently come with him. I looked at her again and made sure I didn't know her.

"This is Christina, Steve," Jerry told me in that same, dull voice, purposely deadened to keep out emotion. "Christina," he said to her, "this is Steve."