He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it. Like a trollop in heat. He was an imaginative young man. After passing Tottenham Court Road, very few houses were to be seen on the right hand, opposite Wardour Street it was open country. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account. ” Courtlaw turned abruptly to Brendon.
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