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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 37 Dory wins a dogfight at the net to stave off a love set. Then it's over. Too much money. . .he breathes heavily. . .has gone into that man's game. It is always pleasant to swim where the Cheeca Lodge has gone to the expense of building their small beach against the Atlantic. From his overlord's cabana, rich as Saladin's tent, Marabout the dervish comes. Effman would want me in there, Dory Clayton says to himself, hiding in a jar. "Baksheesh," the dervish offers. "Oh really, I can't accept--" "For you. For the tennis." "Well I can't really. But after all one thousand." There was a pleasant hysteria to the place. Possessing the domestic help. Maids and gardeners and cooks. Crisp $1000 gratuities for all. They ran around counting the zeroes. It was like a good day on a game show. In a letter Dorian Clayton would tell about his host: --with that sort of power or potence that seems to come lately from victory on the tennis court, he came brushing past me. Saying quite loudly 'I need a woman, to refresh myself.' As calmly as if he were asking for a Pepsi-Cola. |