Unformatted text preview: Victrola, the one that Mona was supposed to have, and he had been dancing about, in his long quilted satin robe. He'd said that Michael was too good. Angels have their limits. "Pure goodness has rarely defeated me, you understand, Mona," he had said with his charming French accent, speaking English for her < as he always did in her dreams, though she spoke French perfectly, "but it is invariably a nuisance to everyone else but the person who is so perfectly good." Perfectly good. Mona had typed in "Perfectly Scrumptious, Per- fectly Delectable, Perfectly a hunk!" Then she'd gone and made those entries in the file marked "Michael." "Thoughts on Michael Curry: he is even more attractive now that he has had the heart attack, like a great beast with a wounded paw, a knight with a broken limb, Lord Byron with his club foot." She had always found Michael "to die for," as the expression went. She hadn't needed her dreams to tell her, though they did embolden her somewhat, all that dra...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10