It was now a quarter past twelve. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. " "Your husband?" "No. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. ” Michelle patted Lucy’s shoulder reassuringly. The word handsome was a little beyond her grasp.
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