He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would leave. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. There are also the letters which were scattered about Wild's room after the murder of Sir Rowland. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. ’ ‘So I infer.
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