" The phrase was new, but Ruth nodded understandingly. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. Melusine opened her eyes at him. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement. I’m fine. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. It must be somewhere hereabouts. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. “Always planning for death.
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