He got off at Canal, and she exited behind the crowd. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. “I didn’t blow up the house.
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