. ‘We were wondering about that. You do not make me afraid like this. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. Loving was better than that. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. I figured it would hurt your feelings if you knew I still talked to him, so I kept my mouth shut. I don’t have to take this shit. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St.
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