Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. That would come later. It must have cut him. She heard them diving after her, and noted their starting eyes as they spied the opened panel. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved.
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