From N8:
"And the one I liked, of all the boys willing to consider an old maid, upper class Jewish girl from Philadelphia?" Again, her hand on his arm. "A waiter." She whispered it, giddy with the frisson of the connection they shared.
Danny leaned in.
"A Russian no less," she added. "And not. A. Jew." Her voice sang.
Danny laughed. Images of oil-rich oligarchs paraded by in fleets of limousines and fur coats made from snow leopards and Siberian tigers. Gold bars piled at their feet. It made him want a brownie sundae.
"You're laughing?" Her eyes hooded a bit, the soft flesh louvering down over her flecked-hazel eyes, and he realized - Jewish. Russian. The 40's. This probably wasn't a happy tale.
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