We went to dinner at the Russian Tea Room on West 57th Street. There was a gypsy beggar in the cold with a melancholy accordion player near the door. The music made me so sad I wanted to cry, but I went inside with Sir Rudolf . . .
“Yeah, yeah, yeah! Ummm, this will work . . . I’m sure I can quit this time,” muttered Steve under his quickening breath while rapidly striking his index finger against the table before him.