The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. She says that everyone in the house makes too much noise, my Dad snores, and that when the house is empty, the traffic noise is nearly deafening. An uncomfortable silence followed. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes.
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