" "What proof have you that I am?"—was the return bolt. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. . “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. Later on I could scarcely have forgiven you. As for Mike’s observations on John’s desires to get laid, it was the pot calling the kettle black. Looking for something, or someone, probably.
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