By Jerome Caminada
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Extra resources for Twenty-Five Years Of Detective Life (1895)
Sample text
She let go of his grip and draped her hand to the floor, where Cocoa sympathetically licked her briny fingers. And then she tried to tell him what she remembered of the story. But it was like somebody cut the sound or something, because she had no auditory recollection. In fact, she didn’t remember any sounds until the accountant was insisting that she was hurt, and working his way into her car. And that’s what happened. She didn’t know what else was going to happen now. That’s what she was getting at.
I don’t know his age. I don’t know a fucking thing. If I hadn’t seen that patch of 40 Adam Braver red hair on the asphalt . ” She swallowed back tears. “But, actually, I do think I know what happened. I do think . ” “This will all be okay,” Richard said. “We will get through this. It will all be okay. ” And he repeated that one more time with a little more emphasis, enough that spoke to the fear in his voice, while the way he said we was as comforting as it was frightening. He would stay the night.
She had walked into her home a different person than when she had left, yet the house had remained unchanged. There was no comfort. And would she have felt better about it if the house had been robbed and bruised of spirit, even by something as mundane as Cocoa chewing up the couch or pissing on the bed? Anything to suggest that the world had changed with her—not just left her alone in it. Claire leaned against the wall, bracing her hands along the cool plaster. She slipped slightly but pushed her palms in for balance.