’ ‘I’m that sorry, miss,’ Kimble said glumly. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Probably a sick man's whim. She showered after she heard the door shut and the cars pull out of the driveway. ‘When you’re my age, you’ll be just as hardheaded. She moved a little nearer to him.
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