For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. Not Trodger. " The detective ruefully inspected the scarlet band on his perfecto. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. We meant to make it dinner and a theatre, but you were not home. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. She turned back into the hall. Wood, meantime, had not remained idle.
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