From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. “I have never yet met a man whose intellect I could respect. I hate what I am. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. You, sir,” he added, turning to Brendon, “had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business. "Do nothing without consulting my father—your father, Thames," she implored. You can tell me the rest another time. My foster mom works there as a second job.
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