A rather spindly fellow in fashionable clothes arrives at a
respectable rooming house in a moderately prosperous neighborhood of
Paris. Debarking from the carriage, he carefully steps through the street
to the door, getting not a speck of mud on his expensive-looking
shoes. Knocking on the door, he turns and takes in the sight of the city.
"Uncle Etienne was right. Parisian is truly the place for someone
like me. Once I get situated in my rooms, I must acquire a lackey and find
a suitable regiment."
As the landlord opens the door, Yves Cherdlieu speaks with him,
reaching into a rather heavy purse to secure lodgings.
--
Doesn't the fact that there are *exactly* 50 states seem a little suspicious?
George W. Harris [EMAIL PROTECTED]
