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It had come from him spontaneously, like an endorsement of what all Manniston Road was saying at that very moment: the "the something big in it" loomed up, intangible but demanding notice. Greenleaf himself, for all his apparent certainty about the guilt of the negro Perry, sensed vaguely the possibility, the hint, that this crime was even worse than it appeared to be. But he would not admit it.
No; I forgot. You'd rather drive down, wouldn't you? Walking would bother that leg. I'll send the machine up for you." "Thanks," Bristow accepted appreciatively. "That will be best." "All right. I'll have it up here in an hour or so. You can pick me up, and we'll run out to Larrimore." He went down Manniston Road, his heels striking hard against the concrete.
"I couldn't think very straight, but I tried to. I couldn't do anything but see myself in jail, in the penitentiary, because of the bank. "I wandered around without paying any attention to where I was. I'd left my bags in the station. The first thing I knew, I was on Manniston Road, in front of Number Nine your house. I felt tired, and I sat down on the bottom step. I had on a raincoat.
The men on guard down there at Number Five wouldn't let me in to see him said I'd better see you." "What have you got, Avery?" asked Greenleaf. "It's a little package. You know, I'm on that beat down there. Takes in the Brevord Hotel. The clerk said this Mr. Morley had sent his grips to the station, but had said he was coming up to Number Five, Manniston Road.
They remembered this now, when he seemed scarcely conscious of the identity of the two girls who had lived almost next door to him during all that time. Different members of the crowd gave him information: Miss Maria Fulton, like nearly everybody else on Manniston Road, had tuberculosis, and Mrs. Withers had been living with her.
Their new happiness would counter-balance all. So he thought, with confidence. A glance through the window showed him Greenleaf and Abrahamson coming slowly up Manniston Road. It was eight o'clock. A few moments later he and Mr. Fulton joined them on the sidewalk. They went at once to No. 9.
These nurses were employed throughout the day at the big sanitarium located just over the brow of the hill at the end of Manniston Road. Perhaps, she could tell him what he wanted to know. "I beg your pardon," he called to her persuasively, "but may I trouble you to come up here for a moment?" She obeyed the summons with slow, hesitant steps. He pushed forward a chair for her and bowed.
Bristow sat watching the last crimson light fade over the mountains. The dim electric, a poor excuse for a street lamp, had flashed on in front of No. 4. The shadows grew deeper and deeper; there was no breeze; the oaks along the roadside and in the backyards became still, black plumes above the bungalows. Manniston Road was wrapped in darkness.
If somebody had come and told me a woman living on Manniston Road had been killed, she would have been the last one I'd have thought of as the victim." "All the other beautiful women I ever knew were stupid; she wasn't." "Her husband couldn't come to Furmville very often." "Loveliest black hair I ever saw." "She used to be "
A few minutes later Withers came up Manniston Road and went into No. 5. Soon after that Miss Kelly brought Bristow a little paper packet. "I'm not sure I ought to do this," she said, "but, as long as the authorities have ordered it, I guess I'm safe. This is what I get as a result of 'doing' Miss Fulton's nails." He thanked her and reassured her.
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