It is no more a murder, but a duel, you understand. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. It was dangerous for her to dare approaching him and she knew the tremendous risk she was taking, but a part of her demanded that he be found. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato.
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