Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. She had found the location of his firm on the internet on a library computer, tracing him to this place in New York where he practiced criminal law. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known. ‘Tell me, my boy. “You are quite right, I think.
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