‘What are you going to do now, Gerald?’ He sipped his wine and shrugged. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. Perhaps it was loneliness. “Then either this man shot himself or some one else shot him immediately before your arrival—or rather if it was not himself the person who did it was in the room, say two minutes, before you arrived.
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