. . She said that in the note. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. “My God!” he said again. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. She’s so embarrassed about it that she only wears one-piece swimsuits when she tans outside. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him. He tried again. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience.
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