I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. “I wish he had,” she said. “Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. Wood and Thames pass him, and followed at a foot's pace behind them. It was perfectly legitimate. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia.
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