“Lucy, have you noticed that I don’t even own a dog?” He spoke into her hair. “Well,” she achieved at last. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black.
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