Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. "You read it, Ruth. I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. It was you, of course, whom he wanted. He gently took the roses from her and laid them on the pillow. Observe it—a blue-serge coat. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. “You were seen to leave the flat, and your handkerchief was found there. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream.
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