She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. He jumped out of the car. I got a rusty bolt cutter. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. ‘That’s wicked, that is. Mac would have some new yarns to spin and a fresh turn-over to his celebrated liver. He ran back to his car, glancing only once at the man in the car. It came to her like a dear thing rediscovered, that she loved Capes.
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