"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade. I jumped then—I was not even shaken. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. You were never married at all. He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. Not a job he may care about; but he's a good sport. And if I hadn't been thirsty, that poor boob would have made a sure getaway and left James Boyle high and dry among the moth-balls! Oh, the old dome works once every so often.
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