Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. Rain changed to hail, then 154 sleet, then snow. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. “Come upstairs,” she said, “and I will show you your room. Her little white hand stole across the table.
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