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There was a titter, and some applause; but Mr. Mell was so white, that silence immediately succeeded; and one boy, who had darted out behind him to imitate his mother again, changed his mind, and pretended to want a pen mended.
Bond's cards lay on the table before him, the two impersonal pale pink-patterned backs and the faced nine of hearts. To Le Chiffre the nine might be telling the truth or many variations of lies.


They climbed into the patrol car and Bond gave the address of his flat off the King's Road. When the car was moving, Sergeant Dankwaerts relaxed his official face. He turned to Bond. He looked amused. "I quite enjoyed that," he said cheerfully. "Don't often meet a nut as tough as that one. Did you get what you wanted, Sir?"
'Oh sure, but somehow, just as I'd got the s.o.b. all set for a killing, he'd put down as many of his cards as he could meld. Got out of the bag. Sure, I won some small change, but only when he needed a hundred and twenty to go down and I'd got all the wild cards. But you know how it is with Canasta, you have to discard right. You lay traps to make the other guy hand you the pack. Well, darn it, he seemed to be psychic! Whenever I laid a trap, he'd dodge it, and almost every time he laid one for me I'd fall into it. As for giving me the pack - why, he'd choose the damnedest cards when he was pushed - discard singletons, aces, God knows what, and always get away with it. It was just as if he knew every card in my hand,'
WESTSIDER CHARLES RANGEL