“Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. Produce them!" "Never!" replied Kneebone. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. Not wisely but too well. For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. .
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