At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. K-kimble, sir,’ stammered the lad. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling.
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