95 The officer showed her into the sleepy suburban police station, a hub of inactivity on Sunday night except for herself and a slightly drunk woman who had been brought in for DUI. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. She knew, too, she must not hesitate. That's worth something to me; for I don't mind paying for revenge. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. How did you get into this house?’ He shrugged.
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