Emma Richter had liked him from the beginning of the night-school term. Michels, submitting to the inevitable, blamed it on his deceptively youthful manner as well as on his blond hair.
She would approach his desk after the period and inform him in a fluttery whisper, “You said it right this time, Mr. Michels.” He would smile and continue to gather his notes, expecting more. But she would blink and scurry off.
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