He has no imagination, no real generosity. “I am afraid,” he said gravely, “that your sister has been a little indiscreet. And she would have to go tomorrow. So she approached him with sandwiches. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. Ruth returned to the table. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. “I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth. Because of the woman’s pregnant status, a panic had spread in the county that a serial murderer was afoot, but she had made sure to copy the crimes of a famous serial killer that she had read about in the paper to cover herself and mislay blame.
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