Ilsa: Can I tell you a story, Rick?
Rick: Does it got a wow finish?
Ilsa: I don't know the finish yet.
Rick: Go on and tell it. Maybe one will come to you as you go along.
Ilsa: It's about a girl who had just come to Paris from her home in Oslo. At the house of some friends, she met a man about whom she'd heard her whole life, a very great and courageous man. He opened up for her a whole beautiful world full of knowledge and thoughts and ideals. Everything she knew or ever became was because of him. And she looked up to him, worshipped him, with a feeling she supposed was love.
Rick: Yes, that's very pretty. I heard a story once. As a matter of fact, I've heard a lot of stories in my time. They went along with the sound of a tinny piano, playing in the parlor downstairs. 'Mister, I met a man once when I was a kid,' they'd always begin. Well, I guess neither one of our stories is very funny. Tell me, who was it you left me for? Was it Laszlo or were there others in between? Or aren't you the kind that tells?
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