He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen. Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp.
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