‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. After all, if one could wait twenty years or more in between bouts of lovemaking, one could certainly wait a few more days. ‘But what is it that amuses you, Jacques?’ Kimble’s grin spread wider. I don’t know. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone.
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