MADAME LOLA looked up as the door of her office opened. She had heard the doorbell ring some little time ago, but _ _she had not even bothered to think about it. She knew that the negro maid would admit the caller—and she knew, too, who it would be: She merely jerked her head in the direction of the cocktail cabinet which stood in the corner of the room, and then continued to go through the account books on which she had been working, puffing away at the strong South American cigarette which she held firmly between her painted lips. Madame Lola's age would have been hard to guess. It might have been forty—fifty even—but the heavily-painted face, like a mask, hid the ravages of the years. Only her rather plump contours told that she was tapproaching the sere and yellow of life. Those contours bulged in the tight-fitting evening gown she wore. Her expressionless face did not alter as she totted up the rows of figures. She was not in a hurry to discuss business.
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