She opened her mouth, tried to form words, but they would not
come. After a minute she regained some control. "My God,
Jean-Pierre," she managed, hiding her face in her trembling
hands. "That amounts to millions."
"Greta," he said, pulling her from him, "You have earned your
share. You have worked for it."
"Yes," she said. "Yes," an emphatic whisper. "I have worked hard
for it, haven't I?"
"Yes," Jean-Pierre assured her, petting her hair. He smiled. "You
have indeed."
* * *
"That's right, as much of it as I can sell," Peter said into the
telephone. With a disbelieving expression he shook his head at
Byron, who crossed his arms and shot him a mildly disturbed look.
"Okay, Peggy, thanks," Peter said, then hung up the phone.
"You sure you want to do that?" Byron said carefully, turning his
coffee cup in his palm.
"You bet I am! Byron, I can't believe this! I can't believe
Matthew has formed an alliance with them!" Peter said, batting
his hand at the "Wall Street Journal," whose headline announced,
"ICP, Wallaby Announce Strategic Venture."
"Petey, don't forget that 'them' is where this old timer comes
from."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean to disparage you, or
where you're from. I'm just astonished Matthew has actually done
what he was trying to get me to agree to do. To sell out Wallaby
to ICP.
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