“She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them. We just want to ask her a few questions about an old murder case. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. . . “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q.
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