He halted and put out a hand to stop Hilary. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. She went down, feeling rather than seeing the way. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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