She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. After listening attentively for a short time without drawing breath, he became convinced that his apprehensions were groundless, and, greatly relieved, sat down upon the chair to rest himself and prepare for further efforts. ‘You did not find Gosse, that is seen, but—’ ‘Gosse? Gosse? Who’s this here Gosse then?’ ‘He is the Frenchman of whom I told you. “He writes very well,” said Ann Veronica. Like most officers, he’d had it especially made, for a man who loved danger had need of a precision instrument of defence. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. “You did not wish to see him particularly this evening, then?” Anna hesitated.
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