Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. Get you gone. CHAPTER XVIII The doctor reached for the key and studied it sombrely. Coolly and gingerly, she kissed it as it stood at its hard angle from his body. A few more minutes, and she was safe.
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