Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. Of you—an angel with one wing. She hissed in a breath and his eyes met hers. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. She was always breaking rules, whispering asides, intimating signals. She heard the television blaring away. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you.
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