"I must go to Chicago, father," said I, one evening, after we had been discussing our domestic relations with more than usual earnestness. "Why go to Chicago, Philip? What put that idea into your head?" replied my father, with a kind of deprecatory smile. "I don't feel as though I could live any longer in this state of doubt and uncertainty." "Really, Philip, I don't think you need worry yourself to that extent." "I can't help it. I want to know whether my mother is alive or dead. She may have been in her grave for a year for aught we know."
In light of the obvious interest in poker that seems to have overtaken this country, I am in the rare position of enjoying a firsthand glimpse of what really goes on in an average poker room here in Las Vegas. The characters are necessarily fictitious, but I would be lying if I said that many of their qualities resemble people I am fortunate enough to play poker with on a regular basis. The odd thing about all of this is that the issue here is not winning a million dollar jackpot in some well publicized TV poker tournament. What it's about are real people like our potential readers. For this reason, something tells me that there is a reading public out there who might love being privy to one isolated poker game and one comparatively small win, that for its recipient represents a major miracle
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