She had animated dark blue-gray eyes under her fine eyebrows, and dark brown hair that rolled back simply and effectively from her broad low forehead. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. “You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. Wood. Once I banged on the door so hard I split it in two. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked.
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