She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. ‘We needn’t murder Lucia. ’ ‘Charvill, then,’ Gerald concluded, unperturbed. Time after time he reminded her of how powerless she would be without him, how unkind the world was towards single women. Something seemed awry.
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