The Master of the Mint. She took a shower after a particularly harsh volleyball debacle only to find that her locker had been picked and her outfit of the day, gray sweatpants and a shapeless pink sweater, were gone. No one spoke, and she was impelled to flounder on. Sometimes these dreams are simple and tender; sometimes they are magnificent. “What a hideous repertoire! If you are in earnest about wanting to earn money, why on earth don’t you accept an engagement here?” “An engagement?” she queried. Afterwards she hunted up the article in question, and it seemed to her quite delightfully written and argued. He is probably very wealthy. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner.
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