Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. You must—you shall be mine. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. “Well?” he asked her tersely. She read the policeman’s rueful glance when she caught his refection in his rearview mirror. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. She has been a dear.
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