Arthur Miller, illustrious playwright and ex-husband of Marilyn Monroe, was seated next to me, and he pushed his spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose, the deep grooves of the smile lines around his mouth delving ever deeper. “I’d have thought you’d have seated me with Pushinka out in the doghouse rather than in the place of honor.” I traced the rim of my wineglass with one manicured finger, for I’d maneuvered the bespectacled playwright’s seating card directly to my left only this morning. “And why is that, Mr. Miller? Because you were once suspected of being a Communist? Or because of
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