Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. Spit of your mother. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. We were to ransom you, then we would fake your death, play as if the kidnappers had executed you. 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. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. “Steady on!” he cried.
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