"More slang," he said. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. ‘Who is that man? What has he to do with you? No, don’t tell me. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. “Lucy. like rabies. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. “Mr. . . "I should be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment might disapprove.
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