drawer with the forms I still hadn’t filled out. The fourth letter was a hand-written thank-you note from Cecil B. De Mille. It was nice and simple, just “Thank you. C.B.”
The last letter was the mystery. I turned it over two or three times and looked at the return address in the corner. There was no doubt. The address was not off some copying machine. It was marked personal and for me. I pulled out my Tahitian letter opener and carefully slit the top, wondering who was writing to me from the White House in Washington.
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