She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. ’ ‘Comment? How will it serve you to kill me?’ ‘I do not need to kill you. “Yes. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. The weed was all right. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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