A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. And talking of every conceivable thing. She floundered deep. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. The ruse succeeded almost beyond his expectation. Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them.
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