I can be that man, the one I know you want. ’ ‘I presume you were not with her in France?’ Kimble stared. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. You must—you shall be mine. Paris, 18. CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering.
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