After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. She opened the door with a neon colored key. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. That blow made me a thief.
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