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“Alexis!” she cried.
“Name of John Briggs,” he answered candidly.
“Never again!” she said. “Alexis Triona, when you try on a new name and it suits, wear it.”
She was so bright that her brilliance would have dimmed the Celestial Hierarchy or Broadway at midnight.
She clutched him tight. “Oh, my God, if you had only been killed!”
“Omit the ‘only’ and it goes,” said he.
So they talked through the sweet-scented June night into the equally deliciously odoriferous June dawn. And, of course, she, inadvertently, let slip—the pigs. Magna est lingua feminae et praevalebit. What to do, then? “Briggs” could be buried but the paternal pigs pursued her. Alexis rose to the occasion.
“Come, let’s go,” said he, “let us leave this snob-ridden island, populated by porcophobes. Let us go where pigs mean Ancestry, Honors, Family Portraits, High Society and Money in the Bank.”
“Where, oh, where is that delectable place?” she cried.
“Chicago,” he said simply.