Her mother had died with the phantom of one marching across her
delirium. Even opposite the long, narrow, and exceedingly respectable
rooming house in which she now dwelt a uniform had stood for several
days lately, contemplatively.
There was a menacing flicker of them almost across her eyeballs, so
close they lay to her experience, and yet how she could laugh when
Getaway made a feint toward the one on her beat, straightening up into
exaggerated decorum as the eye of the law, noting his approach, focused.
"Getaway," said Marylin, hop-skipping to keep up with him now, "why has
old Deady got his eye on you nowadays?"
Here Getaway flung his most Yankee-Doodle-Dandy manner, collapsing
inward at his extremely thin waistline, arms akimbo, his step designed
to be a mincing one, and his voice as soprano as it could be.
"You don't know the half of it, dearie. I've been slapping granny's
wrist, just like that. Ts-s-st!"
But somehow the laughter had run out of Marylin's voice. "Getaway," she
said, stopping on the sidewalk, so that when he answered his face must
be almost level with hers--"you're up to something again.
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