He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. Enschede halted. Your mother, for what it’s worth to you—for there’s nothing for you here, by God!—was the woman I chose for Nicholas. In fiction you make the Chinese secretive, criminal, and terrible—or comic. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble.
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