She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. The girl wished that she had come afoot, despite the knowledge that she would have suffered many inconveniences, accidental and intentional jostling, insolence and ribald jest. She was nearly dead. There was absolute quiet.
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