Her confession was still unmade. I find you were excessively brave, mon pauvre. ‘Think it’s worth getting some sort of light and following her down there?’ asked Roding. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Those I don’t mind, though, the games. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress.
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