She had once reconciled in her mind that she was happy as long as she had him. The weed was all right. "If this document is correct," continued Wood, "and I am persuaded it is so,— you are as unfortunate as wicked. Give me the keys and the light. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside.
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