Suddenly he stopped short. The doctor paced the room half a dozen times. He savored the last solo, the coda. His mind was busy with a résumé of yesterday's unusual events. O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. They sell only their talents, not their bodies; they are not girls of the street. He was never drunk in the accepted meaning of the word; rather he walked in a kind of stupefaction.
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