Franny nodded solemnly. She was looking at a little warm blotch of sunshine, about the size of a poker chip, on the tablecloth. “I had to strain to write it,” she said.
Lane started to say something to that, but the waiter was suddenly there to take away the empty Martini glasses. “You want another one?” Lane asked Franny.
He didn’t get an answer. Franny was staring at the little blotch of sunshine with a special intensity, as if she were considering lying down in it.
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