You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. “Tell him to drive—anywhere,” she exclaimed. "But they will find the evidences of slaughter in the other room,—the table upset,—the bloody cloth,— the dead man's sword,—the money,—and my memorandum, which I forgot to remove. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one. I loathe this room.
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