"How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it.
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