Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. Diane Vorsack tried to disguise the fact that she was livid, her daughter’s buffoonery having driven off the prestigious dinner guests before the after-dinner drinks could be served. Austin was dismissing a host of inquirers who had been attracted thither by the news,—for it had already been extensively noised abroad. ‘Lover’s tiff indeed. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. Three cars were lined up in the driveway. “How will you live?” she appealed. She visualized him as in a policeman’s uniform and quite impassive. The thief-taker's throat was bound up with thick folds of linen, and his face had a ghastly and cadaverous look, which communicated an undefinable and horrible expression to his glances.
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