He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. It was common name, so I was thrown off the scent. This door, which was open, Jonathan locked and took out the key. “It was my sister Anna. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least.
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