The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Now I know that you don’t live as close to the Beck house as you once pretended. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway. Perhaps he had had money in the coat, back in Hong-Kong, and had been robbed without knowing it.
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