It simply doesn’t count. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. Supposing the wire should break and her head tumble off her shoulders into the street? The whimsey caused another smile to ripple across her lips. ’ She stopped, her lips tightening. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. There would be no way of keeping her police questioning a secret from the entire neighborhood.
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