Mr. Wood hadn't struck me. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. She felt the warm nearness of his. “Yeah. I deserve pretty much what I’ve got. Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair.
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