She had found that proof. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it.
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