The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth. " Neither spinster noticed the reluctance in the tones.
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