Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. He had heard nothing. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours. There were too many kills, too many unsolved files in too many cabinets.
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