"When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee. I want to put myself into your hands. He looked just as Julian had the night she had first met him outside the Joliet Laundromat. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. He suddenly became eloquent and plausible. O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. Anna watched her with curious eyes.
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