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Show 29, Jeffries, Islamorada tucked up in behind her martyr, the Pittsburgh girl. "And I was just a freshman then." She ate the fruit from a pitcher of Sangria. "The realities of the job market," she began, "are such that I'll want the A in practice teaching." "I'm a stiff grader." "Oh wow, very Freudian," she laughed, as her slim hand fell into his lap. "I'm saying I'm a firm, a hard-oh never mind. Anyway your grades suggest you do something between average and B work," he managed. "I know all about that. And honestly, I'll probably do B work for you, but give me the A and I'll owe you for the difference. . .;' A plucky girl, he thought, grabbing at my zipper. . . "You'll owe me. . ." "Relax. Relax just now, boss-man," she gave a most generous smile, and used her big cloudy marble-brown eyes, "You can take it out of my hide." A new wrinkle, a fine little web on the Dorian-portrait, he acknowledged. More and faster, curiouser and curiouser he'd go barreling down those little |