"There was a look of woe on his face that was almost comical. Raids, bullets, criminals...no problem. A missing duster? Crisis."

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She quoted a dead playwright and called me a bullet with nothing but a future. She understood my lack of self-pity. She knew why I despised everything that might restrict my forward momentum. She knew that bullets have no conscience. They speed past things and miss their marks as often as they hit them.

— James Ellroy