Once they were on the move, Kimble seemed to find strength from somewhere. Suddenly the door of the flat opened and closed. It was an impulse. A dozen shynesses and intellectual barriers were being outflanked or broken down in her mind. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. She proffered her neck towards him.
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