I came to the bank with a whole package of worn days. Aunt sits in the box with horror, recounting... it goes to half a hundred. It stretches me.
That I cannot accept.
I. Why? There are enough signs to identify authenticity. It is not gold, and the nominal is obvious!
If I did, I’t work in the bank. I would take one of the five thousand, break it in pieces and spread it across the different branches of the bank. And then again... and again... and more... and more... and more.