Never Love a Stranger

419 Pages·1948·1.62 MB·English

by  Robbins Harold

NEVER LOVE A STRANGER
by
HAROLD ROBBINS
TO MY WIFE
LIL
WHO SHOULD SHARE THE BILLING
Call no man foe, but never love a stranger.
Build up no plan, nor any star pursue.
Go forth with crowds; in loneliness is danger.
Thus nothing God can send,
And nothing God can do
Shall pierce your peace, my friend.
From the poem To The Unborn, by Stella Benson as published in
Twenty.
BY PERMISSION OF THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
Acknowledgement
The author wishes to express his gratitude
to MR. ROBERT L. SCOTTINO,
for his kind words and considerate
encouragement during the long years it
took to write this book.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgements
What Came Before
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Interlude
PART TWO
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Interlude
PART THREE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Interlude
PART FOUR
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Interlude
PART FIVE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Interlude
PART SIX
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
What Came After
About the Author
By the Same Author
Copyright
What Came Before
M
RS. COZZOLINA tasted the soup. it was rich and thick, tomatoey, and with just
the right touch of garlic. She smacked her lips—it was good. With a sigh she
turned back to the table where she had been stuffing ravioli with shredded
chicken. It had been a long, hot June day but now it was beginning to grow
damp. The sky outside had grown darker and she had had to turn on the light in
the kitchen.
“These American girls,” she was thinking as her pudgy fingers lightly shaped
the dough and poked bits of chicken into them, the sweat damp on her forehead
and just over her lips where the slight dark shadow of a moustache was visible.
“Planning babies so they don’t have to carry them in the summer! Who ever
heard of such a thing? Why in the old country,” she smiled, thinking of when she
was young, “they just had them. You didn’t plan children there.” She had a right
to think the American girls were foolish. She was a midwife and business had
been bad all summer, and she had seven children of her own to feed since her
husband had died.
Somewhere in the darkness of the house the doorbell rang. She picked her
head up at the sound and cocked it to one side as she tried to think who it might
be. None of her customers was due until next month, and she came to the
conclusion it was a pedlar. “Maria,” she shouted, her voice echoing through the
dim hallways, “go and see who’s at the door.” Her voice was harsh from many
years of shouting at her children and at the pedlars on the street from whom she
bought most of her foodstuffs.
There was no reply. Again the doorbell rang, this time it had a harsh, strident,
demanding tone. Reluctantly she wiped her hands on her apron and went through
the long narrow corridor to the front door. Through the coloured panes of glass
in the window she could make out a dim shape. She opened the door.
A girl was standing there, a small suit-case on the steps near her. Her face
was thin and drawn, but her eyes glowed with the warm, frightened luminosity,
much like an animal’s in the dark. She was obviously pregnant, and to Mrs.
Cozzolina’s experienced eye was in her last month. “Are you the midwife?” The
voice was soft but somehow afraid.