“Stop,” he said. The parlour was cluttered but cosy. The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. The prisoner was then thrust in by Quilt. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. Why did I not realise it at once? It just shows how one should not judge by appearances.
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