When Clementine woke in the morning, she found the typewriter sitting beside the bed, regarding her with a solicitous tilt of the return bar. There was a piece of paper in the roller, and with a groggy sense of bewilderment she read:
I COULDN'T HELP NOTICING THAT YOU WERE HAVING SOME TROUBLE. PLEASE FORGIVE MY PRESUMPTUOUSNESS, BUT I'VE FINISHED YOUR MANUSCRIPT.
1 comment:
why can't this happen to me?
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