She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. ‘Come, mademoiselle. Jolly nice girl, too. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. John said nothing. With his black and gray hair, his gray-green eyes were a striking contrast and he looked even younger, as if he had been frozen at age thirty-three. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. You might even tire of me by then, you know.
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