. ‘It’s a pretty name. ’ Then he bowed, raising his hat in salute and, crossing to the coach, spoke briefly to its driver and leapt into it without looking back. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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