Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. Thanksgiving Day morning, Shari woke Lucy a half an hour before the sounding of the alarm.
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