Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. “You did a great job on my concerto today. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. You might even tire of me by then, you know. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be.
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