“I don’t see what he has to do with my coming to London?” “He—he worships the ground you tread on. He will not come. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. Wood, in a taunting tone. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. Late in July he finished the fourth story. She decided not to ask him outright if he wished to make love to her. “Nothing has happened to Mr.
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