‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. He laid her on their old bed and kissed her from head to toe. That he was hot and breathless was of no matter; in that moment he would have faced a dozen Samsons.
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