Michael Malone - Weebly

more sense than magic.
Of course, they were right to tell her it made no
sense. Priss was right to think it hysterics. She had
thoughtlessly left, after thirty years of marriage, a good
quiet man who thought he loved her for this strange,
unquiet man who knew he wanted her, who had swirled
her into his passion like wind and leaves. But they were
right, she was being unfair to Winslow and could not for
much longer refuse to think about that.
Still now Richard's pulse in his neck pressed the
rhythm of his heart to her face. And his hand beneath
her hand was vital. And for so long she had not been
touched, except by words—Winslow was thoughtful
and said kind things—for years somehow they had not
made love, and even in the beginning her husband had
evaded passion. It had been for so long that she had
neither known herself to be a passionate woman, nor
been aware that in passion's loss she was that much less
herself.
But Richard knew, knew it the moment he brushed
against her with his knee in that Argyle bar. He knew
who she was. He saw it in each act of her body, in her