Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. “My dear Annabel,” she said, “this is delightful, but I thought that it was forbidden. Jeez! It was about time. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. Detention would mean coming home late, which spelled distraction and trouble on the night of a kill.
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