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The delivery boy was sixty-two years old, and there was no such person as Barney Northrup.
“Let me remind you,” Barney Northrup said, “the rent here is cheaper than what your old house costs in upkeep.” How would he know that, Jake wondered.
A dressmaker, a secretary, an inventor, a doctor, a judge. And, oh yes, one was a bookie, one was a burglar, one was a bomber, and one was a mistake. Barney Northrup had rented one of the apartments to the wrong person.
“A smile that could break your heart,” Sydelle Pulaski, the tenant in 3C, always said. But no one paid any attention to Sydelle Pulaski.
No one paid any attention to her, except that poor crippled boy whose smile could break your heart, and that bratty kid with the braid—she’ll be sorry she kicked her in the shin.
she will be
“Pyramidal tract involvement,” Denton Deere whispered, trying to impress Angela with his diagnosis. Angela, her face a mirror to the boy’s suffering, grabbed her tapestry bag and hurried out of the room.
