|Title||:||the final curtain call|
|Plot||:||+ Somehow standing there at the bar, glass in hand, Martin Elliott found himself thinking that even his wife Julia had her good points. He looked across the room of the restaurant at her sitting there alone, and in a strange way his generosity almost forgave her for the wedding he had to go through, the honeymoon he had to smile through, the two years of marriage he had to live through afterwards. Yes, it had paid off now, he was no long Martin Elliott, hopeful juvenile standing hat in hand in front of the desks of assorted Broadway producers, no, not now. All afternoon the casual remark he dropped after lunch at Spinelli's had been hustling around through these Broadway hangouts. Sitting at a hundred tables leaning on a thousand bars, until now, he was, at long last, important.|
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