(xx) The Solo March

Well, sir, it's late afternoon as we enter the small house halfway up in the next block now. And here in the living room we find Mr. and Mrs. Victor Goke. Mr. Victor Goke is newly arrived home from the office, and he stands beside the library table, intently perusing a letter.

And his wife, who occupies the hither corner of the Davenport, donning, Jeffleman's socks, observes casually. Your friend Homer McDancy writes a lovely nice hand. Flourishes and googles to who laid the chunk. I bet when he signs his signature he trails the last few strokes into a bird's line.

Kind of school teacher and Dickson that did that. Used a special pen and special ink. Some of the young fellows used to get him to write to their sweethearts in their elegant handwriting. Please see it.

Oh, excuse me. I want to concentrate on these. Yes, I'd rather line like my undershirts. Go on and read your letter. I'll be quiet at the mount. Who may you make dance, he pays me one of the most gratifying compliments I've ever received.

Oh. Quite. Almost bring the lump into my throat. Does he compliment you on the march and you did down to CNA Depot two weeks ago? Well, let me finish the letter and I'll tell you all about it.

All right. God, James. You don't say your eyes are a little blue, forget me, not. You know what? Oh, nothing. Go ahead. I'll be through in a minute and tell you all about it. Take your time.

Oh really, over after all. My. Oh, yeah. I never thought of myself as a Russian schoolgirl susceptible to flatty, but over you, McDance, his confidence had just got me melting inside. Oh, what did he say?