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On the seventh evening of her Greek holiday, Isabelle sat at a cafe table in Athens, writing her postcards and watching Julie, opposite her, doing the same thing. Julie's dark head was bent downwards. She filled in her postcards quickly yet laboriously, mumbling the words as she wrote. Her long greasy hair kept on falling into her eyes and she pushed it back, picked up the ballpoint, then dropped it again to clutch at her hair.
"Are you sending a postcard to Robert?" Julie suddenly said.
"I don't know if I will," said Isabelle.
"You really ought to, you know."
"Oh, it wouldn't be any use."
"You don't know that," said Julie. "You ought to give him a signal. He may be waiting for that."
"Oh, I'll see, Julie. I'll see."
Source: HighBeam Research, To the edge of her world.(Short Story)