He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. ‘I hope I do not understand you. See paragraph 1. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. He handed Ruth a letter.
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