He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia. The decision had been sound. You skulk in shadows, following an émigré. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. ‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald.
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