It was a habit of his to talk to himself. I spoke a thought aloud. ‘If you will not tell me about Valade, so be it. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. It’s these damned novels. Vorsack sat alone at his computer in his pajamas. It'll be turning over to-morrow. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside.
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