Her soft brown eyes, inherited from Larry, warmed an already pretty face. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. That’s Italians for you. Gerald exchanged a puzzled glance with his friend. Montressor’s guests.
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