Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table
My old wooden desk sat right under the small south window.
I reached into my coat pocket and took out the single closing sheet Mr.
Gable had given me at nine-fourteen.
I pulled a thick brown folder out of the bottom desk drawer.
The brown cardboard folder had a brass clasp on the front edge.
I slid the closing statement into the brown folder and pressed the brass tabs flat against the cover.
The paper made a dry rustle against the clean cardboard inside.
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