He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. I hate this part of the world. Only she hadn’t. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned.
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