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’ Laurie showed Natasha her wide mouthed smile and said, ‘Trust me, Nat. Anytime you want to join us, it won’t be imposing.’ Nat blushed at the suggestion. Deeply. Still, she allowed herself to slip inside of Laurie’s offered arm, and at the same time she allowed Francine to hold the joint to her lips for her so that she could take the last drag on it before Francine discarded it to the pavement. The girls stayed huddled together as they inched their way to the door. When they finally made it to the front of the line, Laurie asked the tall, sun bleached blond, with middle linebacker type muscles standing at the door, ‘Where’s Mo?’ With amusement, the tall youth asked, ‘Who is Mo?’ Undaunted, Laurie said, ‘Come on. You know who the fuck Mo is. Maurice Carter. He’s running this gig, and he’s my friend.’ ‘How do I know he’s your friend?’ ‘Duh,’ Laurie said. ‘Why don’t you go get him, so you can ask him?’ The large boy grinned and said, ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’re trying to. He awoke. To a Parisian accustomed to silken curtains, walls hung with velvet drapery, and the soft perfume of burning wood, the white smoke of which diffuses itself in graceful curves around the room, the appearance of the whitewashed cell which greeted his eyes on awakening seemed like the continuation of some disagreeable dream. But in such a situation a single moment suffices to change the strongest doubt into certainty. "Yes, yes," he murmured, "I am in the hands of the brigands of whom Albert de Morcerf spoke." His first idea was to breathe, that he might know whether he was wounded. He borrowed this from "Don Quixote," the only book he had ever read, but which he still slightly remembered."No," he cried, "they have not wounded, but perhaps they have robbed me!" and he thrust his hands into his pockets. They were untouched; the hundred louis he had reserved for his journey from Rome to Venice were in his trousers pocket, and in that of his great-coat he found the little.
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