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Michael Malone - Weebly

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had moved her hand down that arrow of hair and over<br />

that bulge. His batocchio, they called it in private. And<br />

hers, campanella, the bell. They had hidden<br />

everywhere—in his study, friends' homes, cars, parks,<br />

hotels, and finally across an ocean to Paris—so that<br />

Hugo and she could touch. A beautiful man. Had he not<br />

been killed, he would have come back to her, she<br />

believed that. Who cared for what mistaken cause he<br />

had been silly enough to run away and fight? A beautiful<br />

man.<br />

"Evelyn! This is Louis Daytona; I don't think you<br />

met on Wednesday. He's here on a business matter.<br />

You remember he did Vincent's statuary for me, and<br />

we're just going to have a look at it before Mr. Daytona<br />

and his friend there have to leave. They're on their way<br />

to Texas, it seems. Was there something you wanted?<br />

Evelyn?"<br />

"Ah, oh, I'm so sorry, ah, Tracy, but have you any,<br />

ah, ah, any…"<br />

Mrs. Troyes seemed unable to force her eyes away<br />

from the sculptor.<br />

"Any, merde! Ah, oh, olive oil?"

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