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The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. His bravado waxed and he asked her to what would be her first date in nearly twenty years.
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