Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. Hilary threw up his eyes. You go home and wait a century, Vee, and then try again. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry. He had deliberately saved it for last. “He was in holy orders, and we were to have been married when he got a living.
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