They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. . . CHAPTER XXXI. She passed down the stairs and into the street. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. Slash and cut as much as you please.
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