"No," replied Jack. He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. Her courage and her presence of mind had alike deserted her. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. Better come another morning. I know nothing about this affair, but some one has been burning documents. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. That is not reasonable. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain.
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