As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. Nothing seemed to be amiss. "You are my prisoner, Jack. I suspect he has a bit of vanity. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. ‘Not kill me, I mean. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. It is just how things happen to be.
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