She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. It was a young girl who overheard me when I was on my third shopkeeper who answered my question. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. “I’m fine,” she said softly. Your purpose is done.
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