I liked Raymond, too, who I hadn't remembered at all—his rueful little soliloquy at the end suggesting genuine attachment rather than money as primary motive, even if not one of the Devonshire Starrs after all. I appreciate the existence of random sympathetic professional dancers in Golden Age detective fiction (cf. Antoine in Have His Carcase).
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I liked Raymond, too, who I hadn't remembered at all—his rueful little soliloquy at the end suggesting genuine attachment rather than money as primary motive, even if not one of the Devonshire Starrs after all. I appreciate the existence of random sympathetic professional dancers in Golden Age detective fiction (cf. Antoine in Have His Carcase).