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It was a small party – ten couples and a few unattached men and women – and it was, to Adie Rolfe’s mind, rather a stuffy affair. Everyone seemed to be standing in little clusters, talking inanely of topics typical to cocktail parties: local and national politics, current fads and fashions, the Watergate, ad nauseam. The hostess, a tall, statuesque blonde whose name was Luci Danton, circulated amongst the guests with a tray of various preferential drinks – and her long-sideburned husband, Tom, sat next to a slim redhead on one of the living room’s two couches, putting his hand on her knee almost possessively when he thought his wife wasn’t looking.
Adie stifled an involuntary yawn, knowing that Jack and she should never have accepted the Danton’s invitation. Jack had quit the Seattle Sentinal three weeks ago, and everyone in the paper knew why; as a consequence, minor reporters like Tom Danton thought it socially impressive to invite Jack Rolfe and his wife to their drab little parties. Yes, that was certainly the reason they had been invited; but they’d accepted anyway, knowing this, just to get out of their own house, to see some other faces, to talk with someone besides one another.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.