I could already see that her door was ajar after having reached floor. I trod carefully with my arm stretched out for the handle, hoping to open it slowly and maybe get a feel for things before making my presence known. It flung open.

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The chances are pretty remote that the P-R-I-V-A-T-E call is anything other than an over-eager eighteen-year-old telephone monkey reading from a hymn list of carefully scripted phrases designed to lull the receiver into an verbally incapacitated state by which the words, “no, I’m not interested, sorry” are somehow lost from your vocabulary as they bombard you with open questions and well-crafted one-liners.

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