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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 36 looked at him crossways and complained, "Dorian Clayton you are paying more attention to that new tennis racquet than to me," and he explained "February, I'm afraid it's strung a little tighter than you," and her face brightened and she put her slim hands across the leather grip and said, "you know that's a lie and how would you like this racquet across your head?" But shortly, when they were down off the island, waiting on a drawbridge, she seemed to relax and smile to herself as she asked him, "Dory how many pounds of pressure would you want?" Come and play, boy. The Cheeca Lodge had sent for him, we want to see you play. First three of five sets under a tropic sun. "Shall I play customer tennis?" Dory had joked at the management. "Don't flatter yourself," they had answered curtly. Lob, smash and kill-shot. And the perplexing mirror-relationship to playing this left-handed king. The inept stumbling one goes to when the ball crawls away low, when you can't hit through the topspin. A gathering crowd. The gallery. A long point. "Nice volley," a tourist shouts. "Nice rally," the Pooh-bah corrects. The beautiful girl is watching. |