“You will write to me, I am sure—and from the date of your letter I trust most earnestly that I may come back to my old place as “Your devoted friend, “WALTER BRENDON. It doesn't matter that you deal with black people. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised. At least, I frustrated her design in calling upon him this morning. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was.
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