She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. She had paid her bill, and she had enough left in her purse to pay many such. I overheard them planning your assassination. You cannot refuse me this.
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