She hoped that Shari would not be too brokenhearted about her disappearance. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. “But your hair,” he gasped. Now keep still. Prudence.
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